
■ £ 





Library of Congress. 1 


m 


Chap 7P_2L_2l 

shelf.^.a. a3.5_H 


^UNITED STATES OF AMERICA.; ^ 

S 9-167 ■ rv. 


! 






















✓ 





























































, 







NORMAN RECEIVES THE NEWS OF HIS ELECTION. — Page 14 

Frontispiece. 


NORMAN REID, M.A. 

Qd i 


BY 


/ 

JESSIE PATRICK FINDLAY, 

H 

AUTHOR OT ‘THE LOST TIDE.’ 


•Nemesis will have her dues, 

And all our struggles and our toil* 
Tighter wind the giant coils.' 

— Emersom. 


XX- 



CINCINNATI: 

ORA N STON AND STOWE. 

NEW YORK: 

HUNT AND EATON. 


L 
































TO 

/IC>£ /i&otfoer. 


Ame^icajm Edition. 


Tbi? book is published by us up- 
der special cop brae b Yribb 

• • MESSRS. OLIPHANT, ANDERSON & PERRIER, • • 

of Edipbur^b? Scoblapd. b aYe 

pob cb a P^ed bbe ori^ipal orbbo^ra- 
pby, \»rbicb varies ^li^b^ly frorp our 
Arpericap Sbapdards. 


CRANSTON & STOWE. 



CONTENTS. 


o 

CHAP. TAGE 

I. THE BECKONING FUTURE, . .... 9 

II. LOVE AND ART, . .... 17 

III. FATHER AND DAUGHTER, . . . , .25 

IV. THE RULING ELDER, . , . . . .33 

v. Clara’s choice, . ..... 48 

VI. LOVE LIES BLEEDING, . , . . .57 

VII. ALONE 70 

VIII. FIRST IMPRESSIONS, . . . . . .79 

IX. THE RULING ELDER IN A NEW LIGHT, . • .86 

X. WITH THE STREAM ! . , . . . ,95 

XI. * JIM THE SOCIALIST,’ . - . . . 103 

XII. A CLOUD NO BIGGER THAN A MAN’S HAND, . .116 

XIII. AN OLD STORY, ... ... 127 

XIV. MOTHER AND SON, ...... 136 

XV. BLIND MYSIE, . . . . » • .144 

XVI. LOVE BIDES ITS TIME, ..... 159 

XVII. JIM’S DILEMMA, ...... 168 

XVIII. AN EVENING RENCONTRE, . . . . 483 

XIX. THE WIDENING BREACH, . , . . ,197 


7 


8 


Contents . 


CHAP. 

XX. 

THE SCENE IN THE FOUNDRY, 

• 

9 

• 

9 

PACE 

207 

XXI. 

A TRAGIC FAREWELL, 

• 

• 

» 

i 

9 

216 

XXII. 

Clara’s confession, 

• 

• 

9 

9 

9 

225 

XXIII. 

‘a little child shall 

LEAD 

THEM,* 

• 

9 

* 

236 

XXIV. 

A STORMY MEETING, 

• 

• 

t 

• 

9 

247 

XXV. 

DE PROFUNDIS ! . 

• 

• 

9 

9 

9 

256 

XXVI. 

katie’s resolve, . 

• 

• 

• 

• 

9 

267 

XXVII. 

NEMESIS, . . 

• 

• 

• 

9 

9 

277 

XXVIII. 

BITING THE DUST, . 

• 

♦ 

• 

9 

9 

286 

XXIX. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE, 

• 

• 

• 

• 

9 

294 

XXX. 

A GOOD NEW YEAR I 

• 

• 

• 

• 

9 

303 



NORMAN REID, M.A. 

CHAPTER L 

THE BECKONING FUTURE, 

We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought 
Rather to name our high successes so. Lowell. 

Y story opens on a crisp mornmg in February a 
few years ago. 

The hard ground was as chill and silvery 
grey as hoar-frost could make it ; the black 
and leafless trees looked nipped and rigid, as if resisting 
the extreme cold that threatened to freeze the rising sap 
within and to snap the tense branches and twigs, and 
thus save the crows much labour in their nest-building 
operations next month. The iron sky and the iron earth 
seemed to be drawing together as threateningly as the 
ever-contracting Iron Shroud of gruesome fame ; and every- 
body with the slightest pretensions to the possession of a 
weather-eye felt safe in predicting a not far distant fall 
of snow. 



9 


IO 


Norman Reid, M.A. 


Commend me to a morning like this for enhancing the 
charms of a certain cosy, fire-bright parlour in Melville 
Terrace, Edinburgh, where on each side of the radiant 
hearth stand capacious lounging-chairs, and where the 
breakfast-table displays various appetising dainties upon a 
cloth whose spotless white does not chill the very marrow, 
like the woolly fabric of snow which Dame Nature is 
weaving behind the sullen grey clouds visible from the 
window. 

The sole occupant of this room was a young man, who 
would have been appropriately introduced, one would 
think, in an attitude of luxurious and slippered ease, either 
doing justice to the ‘good things of this life’ on the table 
or enjoying his morning paper while he toasted his toes 
in front of the blazing fire. 

The Rev. Norman Reid, M.A., however, was not thus 
engaged. He was standing by the window with his hands 
in his pockets, gazing with evident impatience through the 
scanty fringe of trees that bordered the frosty expanse of 
the Meadows. He had just breakfasted, and the morning 
paper invited him to a cosy nook by the fire ; nevertheless 
he lingered by the window with a pucker of anxiety on 
his brow, awaiting the arrival of his letters — or to speak 
more correctly, hoping for the arrival of one special 
letter. 

Let us glance at him while Destiny — in the shape of the 
limping, blue-cold postman, sowing his paper harvest of joys 
and sorrows as he moves along — is rapidly approaching. 

He is of an unusually tall and massive figure, the 
possession of which one would almost grudge to a minister 


The Beckoning Future . 1 1 

whose sacred calling is not supposed to necessitate particu- 
larly herculean proportions, were it not for the corre- 
spondingly massive head and face, plainly indicative of an 
intellectual and spiritual endowment absolutely essential 
to one whose business it is to interest and influence 
men. 

The face is grave and strong for one so young. It is 
full of dormant power, but also alive with the sensitive 
lights and shadows of emotion. There is sympathy in it 
and sober self-restraint, w T ith more than a hint of firm 
determination. The whole personality, indeed, is that of 
one who will probably prove a mighty power either for 
good or ill. Which of those opposing powers, 0 swift- 
advancing Destiny, will turn the scales that Fortune with 
bandaged eyes poises in her unseen hand ? 

His clustering yellow hair shades a broad, projecting 
forehead which makes a somewhat stern retreat for his 
prominent and eager grey -eyes, and his nose is of that 
delicate aquiline type in which the nostrils seem to quiver 
with every passing breath of emotion. The lower part of 
his face, however, lacks the spiritual significance hinted 
in brow and eyes. It is very decidedly aggressive ; and 
the wide, full-lipped mouth, half-hidden by a moustache 
of golden brown, is quite in keeping with the stubborn 
curves of the clean-shaven chin. 

About two years before the story opens he had finished 
a distinguished curriculum at the University and the 
New College of Edinburgh, and since then he had been 
diligently acquiring experience to fit him for his life-work 
by acting as missionary-assistant to a zealous city minister. 


12 


Norman Retd, M.A. 


He had lately received an invitation to preach as a 
candidate for the vacant charge of Free St. John’s, Otter- 
ton — aii important manufacturing town near the West 
Coast of Scotland. The congregation was one of the largest 
and most influential in that quarter of the country, and 
the Rev. Norman Reid, who had the modesty of real 
ability, wondered not a little why an un ordained and com- 
paratively friendless preacher like himself should have 
been thought of in connection with a charge so far distant 
from Edinburgh and so justly considered a prize in the 
ministerial world. 

He had gone to Otterton to preach, and while there he 
learned from a gentleman who had with somewhat master- 
ful kindness taken possession of him as his guest, a Mr. 
Morgan, a large employer of labour in the town and the 
leading elder in Free St. John’s, that it was to him mainly 
he owed the invitation that had puzzled him. Mr. Morgan, 
as it turned out, had chanced to hear him preach in a 
church in Glasgow two or three months previously, and had 
been so much attracted by his appearance and impressed 
by his ability and spirituality — as he told him with 
slightly condescending frankness — that he had there and 
then determined, if a vacancy should occur in Free St. 
John’s, — a not unlikely contingency owing to the serious 
illness of the then pastor, — to exert whatever influence he 
possessed to secure him as the next minister of the 
congregation. 

The young preacher was also informed by the same 
suave authority that he had made a most favourable 
impression on the minds of the people, and that he might 


The Beckoning Future . 1 3 

in a week or two expect to hear the result of the 
election, which would take place at the beginning of 
February. 

It was now the fourth day of that month, and hence 
Mr. Keid’s anxious outlook for the. postman. He had 
just turned round with a shiver, half the effect of the 
intense cold, half the nervous outcome of hope deferred, 
and had walked to the far end of the room, when the post- 
man’s shrill whistle and sharp pull at the bell were heard, 
and a minute or two later Katie Lawson, his housekeeper, 
entered, bearing on a salver a letter with the Otterton 
post-mark on the corner of the envelope. 

He came forward and snatched at it eagerly, while 
Katie stood observing his anxiety with a smile. 

* I'm thinkin’ there’s guid news in that letter. Folk 
wad surely no’ send such a lang screed to ane they wanted 
to hae nae mair ado wi V said she shrewdly as he turned 
over to the second page. But the young man was too 
much engrossed to hear her, so she began to busy herself 
about the room, waiting, with the familiarity of an old and 
privileged servant, to hear the news which the letter con- 
tained. Mrs. Lawson, however, deserves a special word of 
description not only on account of her personal qualities 
but because of the prominent part she is to play in this 
most veracious chronicle. 

She was a little and spare woman of about fifty years 
of age ; and, although her face had the wrinkled bloom of 
a late apple, her sandy hair and colourless eyes gave her, 
it was difficult to tell how, the look of a highly -intelligent 
ferret. Her bunchy wincey skirts, just revealing her 


14 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


trimly-shod feet, combined with her quaint coif of muslin, 
and bibbed apron of the same daintily-clean material, to 
give her a neat and old-fashioned air which never failed 
to win admiring attention. I don’t think, however, that 
Katie had chosen her unique attire with an eye to any- 
thing so frivolous as the picturesque, for she was a frugal 
soul and was ‘ wearing out,’ I suspect, the personal 
plenishing of an equally frugal but long-deceased grand- 
mother. 

Norman had never known the love and care of a 
father, and although, through the death of a wealthy 
relative whose existence had only become known to his 
mother by means of an advertisement asking for infor- 
mation regarding herself, she had about twelve years 
before this fallen heir to a small fortune, Mrs. Keid 
had had a long and severe struggle to educate her 
only child ; and after the need for the economy and 
toil of earlier * years had departed her health had given 
way, and for the last few years she had spent the 
winter and spring in Mentone, where she at present was. 

Katie had been in that lady’s service since before 
Norman’s birth, and both mother and son owed much 
to her unwearying devotion. She was consequently 
regarded rather as a friend than a mere dependant, and 
was a sharer in all the joys and sorrows of the little 
household. 

4 It’s all right, Katie; I’ve been unanimously elected!’ 
cried Norman, looking up from the letter with a glad 
light in his face. 

* Eh, that’s grand news J I hope it may be for your 


The Beckoning Future . 1 5 

guid/ said she brightly. ‘ No’ that ye need to be telt 
that God’s glory comes before the guid o’ men ! Eh, 
but your mother will be a prood woman when she hears 
the news ! * 

* Yes ; I must write to her at once, so I’ll give you 
all the particulars afterwards, Katie,’ replied Norman, 
sitting down to his desk with a happy face, while Katie 
removed the breakfast-tray and retired to her own 
domain. 

After his letter was finished Norman rose and pre- 
pared for an encounter with the keen north wind, which 
was beginning to bluster across the Meadows and to 
break up the uniform grey of the sky into toppling 
crags of flying vapour. The silver mist of the hoar-frost 
had disappeared beneath the advancing steps of noon, 
and as Norman walked rapidly over the grass towards 
Lauriston Place, where dwelt one who had also an interest 
in his future prospects, the ‘ ineffectual sun ’ blinked for 
a moment between two flying rifts of cloud and he took 
it for an omen of good import, for, stalwart giant though 
he was, at that moment his heart was fluttering like any 
woman’s with mingled emotions of love and hope and 
fear. 

For the mainspring of his happiness was nothing more 
substantial than the capricious smile on a girl’s face, and 
his hopes fluctuated according to the variable sunshine 
and shadow visible thereon. 

Sometimes, indeed, he had allowed himself to be 
momentarily beguiled by the sweet, vague dreams of love 
from the thought of practical success in his sacred 


1 6 Norman Reid \ M.A. 

calling and even from a consideration of its more 
spiritual aspects. 

To-day, however, his thoughts of work and love were 
harmoniously blended, for the intelligence of his elec- 
tion to a more independent and important sphere of labour 
than he had hitherto occupied had come to give a quick- 
ened purpose to his love; and it was with this purpose 
beating high in his bosom that he at length found him- 
self in front of the house wherein dwelt the lady of his 
love. 




CHAPTER II., 

LOVE AND ART. • 

Accuse me not, beseech thee, that I wear 
Too calm and sad a face in front of thine : 

For we two look two ways. 

E. B. Browning. 

RMAN entered a lofty stone passage and, after 
ascending two flights of stairs, he paused on 
the narrow landing and knocked at a door 
whereon a shining plate of brass, which was 
all that emerged from the gloom, set forth the name of 
Allan Porteous, drawing-master. 

The door was opened by a young girl whose slight 
figure was clad in a shabby gown of grey, over which she 
wore a painting -blouse of brown linen, picturesquely 
brightened by touches of blue. On the thumb of her left 
hand she bore a palette, and her right was stretched forth 
to Norman in eager welcome. 

‘Ah, Norman, I knew your knock ! ' she said brightly. 
‘ How dare you come and steal my morning light ? * 

They entered the studio as she spoke, and, while 
Norman found room for his hat amid the miscellaneous 
articles that littered the table, she laid aside her palette 

2 



1 8 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


and brushes with a scarcely audible sigh. But Norman 
heard it, and said somewhat sharply, — 

‘ Don’t let me disturb you, Clara. Go on, pray ; you 
can work and talk at the same time, I suppose.’ 

‘That is exactly what I cannot do, you silly boy,’ she said, 
sitting down beside him on the rickety couch that adorned 
the studio ; ‘especially when I see such burning impatience 
in your face. Come, what news from Otterton ? ’ 

Norman drew her closer and, putting his arm round 
her slender w'aist, said, ‘The best of news. I have been 
unanimously elected to Free St. John’s ; and now, my 
darling, I can offer you a home. We can be married 
very soon now.’ 

She abruptly withdrew herself from his embrace and, 
rising, moved over to the window and stood in the shadowy 
recess. Norman also rose hastily and stood in a pained 
silence which, being at all times uncertain of Clara’s 
moods, he feared to break. But his face showed his 
bitter disappointment, for in the first flush of his bright 
future prospects he had fully counted upon the warm 
sympathy of his betrothed. 

The truth was that Clara Porteous had given her lover 
only a divided love. He had won her consent to become 
his wife in spite of her almost passionate protestations 
that she did not, and never could, love him as she did her 
art. She was an enthusiastic artist, the only child of a 
clever Bohemian drawing -master who sacrificed every- 
thing, his daughter’s talent included, to his unscrupulous 
appetite for drink. He succeeded in wrenching a pre- 
carious livelihood from a constantly-changing class of 


Love ana Art . 


19 


pupils and from the sale of the promising sketches pro- 
duced by Clara’s indefatigable brush — at a cost to her of 
which he in his selfishness never dreamed. 

She never complained, she never told her callous father 
that his conduct checked her dearest aspirations, and that 
his insatiable demands hindered her from doing justice 
to that genius whose restless clamouring for worthy 
expression made her life at once a glory and a martyr- 
dom. 

Ah, how often had she wept in secret over those daily 
disillusions that clouded her sensitive soul, — the harsh 
reproofs, the never-ending worries about money, the sordid 
atmosphere enveloping her life, that would fain have 
breathed a nobler air ! 

All these were burdens lying heavily upon her youth- 
ful shoulders, and, although to one of a practical or easy 
temperament their power to annoy would have been but 
slight, for her they were omnipotent to darken the days 
and to scatter into elusive fragments the rainbow-like 
inspirations and the haunting dreams of fame that came 
to cheer her in the silent night. 

The struggle against circumstance was visible in the 
pale, pinched face wherein her dark eyes shone with 
unnatural lustre, in the harsh lines of care that looked 
so incongruous upon the girlish brow — for she was 
but twenty years old — and in the pathetic and almost 
habitual droop of her graceful shoulders. 

‘ Have you nothing to say, Clara ? * asked Norman at 
length. 

4 1 am very glad that you have been successful. I am 


20 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


pleased for your sake, Norman ; and your mother too will 
be pleased/ she rejoined in a low voice. 

‘ Is that all you have to say ? Oh, Clara, how dis- 
appointing you are ! What is it all worth to me if you 
will not share it ? * 

4 Norman/ she said, turning vehemently towards him, 

‘ I wish that you would go away and begin your new life — 
and forget me. Oh, I wish that you would forget me ! 
I see more clearly every day that I ought never to have 
owned that I loved you.’ 

He tossed his head impatiently, and his voice was 
stern as he replied, ‘Must we fight that old battle over 
again ? How often have I assured you that you obeyed 
your truest instinct when you owned your love ? You 
will persist in tormenting yourself and me, but oh, my 
darling, I will never give you up ! I will never allow you 
to wrong your woman’s heart for the sake of a romantic 
dream of fame.’ 

. ‘ Do you call my longing after perfection in my art a 

dream ? ’ said Clara in a hurt tone, while her eyes filled 
with tears. ‘ It is my life-work/ she protested ; — ‘ of that 
I am sure. Why should I thus struggle against love if 
it were not so ? ’ 

‘ You are too much alone, Clara — you brood over that 
canvas/ said Norman, pointing to a picture standing 
on the easel, ‘ until you grow morbid and visionary.’ 

Clara shook her head. 

f No/ she said sadly ; ‘ I am happiest at my work, 
and that is what troubles me, Norman, when I think 
of my promise to you. I cannot reconcile love 


Love and Art. 21 

and art. I wish I could, for I love you dearly, 
although ’ — 

‘ I will never let you go as long as you say you love 
me ! ’ cried Norman, going towards her and kissing her 
with passionate tenderness. ‘You shall not sacrifice your 
truest — your womanly — vocation for a girl’s romantic 
dream of fame, I repeat ! * 

* Ah, do not say that you think I shall fail in my art !’ 
cried Clara wistfully. ‘ I thought that you believed in 
me. It will be very dreary for me if I have not your 
faith in me to sustain me ! * 

* You sweet, inconsistent darling ! * said Norman with 
a smile ; ‘ if you are sure of success, what does it matter 
whether your poor discarded lover believes in you or not? 
But I do believe in you. I believe that you have got a 
distinct gift, but I understand you better than you do 
yourself, Clara, and I know that even fame would be 
powerless to bring happiness to you if you thus 
renounce love. What pleasure can fame bring to a 
lonely heart ? Believe me, dearest, the sweetest drop in 
the cup of earthly success is the recognition and proud, 
fond praise of those who are nearest and dearest/ 

‘ It may be so, Norman, but I do not seem to have 
room in my heart for both love and art/ She spoke 
almost deprecatingly, and he wondered for a moment if 
she was really as cold as she seemed ; but, remembering 
other scenes in which love had proved the conqueror, he 
made yet another appeal. 

‘ If you will be my wife, Clara, I will give you all that 
you desire — leisure to pursue your art* — 


22 


Norman Reid y M.A. 


She interrupted him hastily. 

'Do not tempt me, Norman! You know very well 
that a minister’s wife ought to have no vocation that 
might distract her from the duties of her position ; and 
art is no dilettante fad that can be taken up or flung 
aside at a moment’s notice. It is a life-long toil, but it 
is the grandest thing on earth ! ’ she cried with an almost 
frantic enthusiasm in her dark eyes ; 'and I cannot relegate 
to any secondary position this God-given gift of mine. 
Ah, Norman, do you think that my lonely childhood has 
been filled with dreams, my sorrowful youth with aspira- 
tions after art for nought ? ’ 

' Do you then consider my love nought ? ’ said he 
bitterly as he paced up and down the floor. ‘ You do 
not think of my suffering, Clara. How can you condemn 
me to stand aside and watch you struggling against 
such fearful odds, and yet stretch forth no hand to help 
you ? Oh, my darling, strong men have failed, as you 
will ’— 

‘ Norman, do not say it 1 ’ she cried passionately. * I 
shall succeed if I live.’ 

‘ Ay, there it is ! If you live ! Clara, Clara, how am 
I to endure the bitter knowledge that you actually lack 
sufficient daily bread, while I have enough and to spare?’ 

She held up a deprecating hand with a sob which 
went to his heart. 

‘ Oh, my darliug, you know that I speak the truth ! 
Why — why will you persist in following a career in 
which even strong men faint by the way ? ’ 

‘ I am driven toward it. It is my fate,’ said she simply. 


Love and Art . 


23 

‘If I die, there is an end of it ; but I shall not die — I 
have hope ! * she cried with a new light in her eyes. 

* No one can live on hope,’ said he sadly. * Will hope 
buy you bread, or even the materials for your art ? Oh, 
darling, come to me ! I will shield you from every wind 
that blows/ 

She shivered as the yearning tones of his voice thrilled 
her heart, but she shook her head as she again said, 
* Norman, do not urge me. I dare not cherish your love 
— not alone because of my art. There is my father * — 
She paused with a blush of shame. 

‘Your father!* cried Norman scornfully; ‘he is not 
worth the name ! Will you actually sacrifice your 
happiness and mine for the sake of a— a scoundrel V 

This was a strong epithet to use in connection 
with the father of the girl he loved. She fronted him, 
straight and indignant, with a cry of horror upon her 
lips. 

‘ You forget yourself strangely,’ she said. ‘ Whatever 
he is, you have no right to call him that to me. My 
mother left him to my care on her death-bed/ 

‘ That was reversing the natural state of the relation- 
ship,’ retorted Norman angrily ; ‘ and your mother never 
dreamed that he would become — what he is. If she had 
foreseen it, she would not have so hampered you/ 

‘ Hush, hush ! I know he is bad, but for my mother’s 
sake he is a sacred charge to me. Therefore, Norman, I 
will not bring disgrace upon you by marrying you/ 

Norman moved about impatiently. 

* Where is he to-day ? ’ said he suddenly. Clara did 


24 Norman Reid , M.A. 

not answer him ; she merely stood looking down with a 
burning face. 

* Is he drinking again ? * cried Norman indignantly. 
‘ Clara, Clara, this is no home for you ! * 

* This is the only home for me,’ she said with pathos ; 
* but it humiliates me to see you here. Norman, do not 
grieve for me. Go away ; forget me * — 

‘ For God’s sake do not mock me ! ’ he cried desperately. 

‘ Am I likely to forget you ? But I will go away 
just now. I shall be in Edinburgh for some weeks yet ; 
I will see you again before I leave for Otterton. But oh, 
Clara ! think again before you fling love aside for such a 
barren life as this ! ’ He waved his hand through the 
studio; then snatching his hat, he rushed away, too 
grieved to observe the usual courtesies of leave-taking. 




CHAPTER III. 

FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 

0 that men should put an enemy in their mouths, to steal away 
their brains ! * Othello. 

after the last echoes of Norman’s steps 
had died away, Clara sat motionless and 
pondering in a chair by the window. 

She truly loved him, and sometimes the 
longing for the affection and sympathy which would be 
hers if she became his wife threatened to conquer the 
strong purpose that dominated her inner life. She 
detested the slipshod existence to which she was 
condemned, for her instincts were thoroughly womanly 
and dainty, and all that was best in her was at war 
with her sordid environment. 

And now, in the seclusion of the studio — an austerely 
bare place it was in spite of many feminine contrivances 
to make it comfortable — she owned to herself how 
pleasant life would be, surrounded with love and ease 
and beautified by the luxurious colours and costly bric-a- 
brac in which her artistic soul delighted. Yes ; in spite of 
her passionate protestations of attachment to the art that 
3 



26 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


was to bring her fame, she might probably have swerved 
in her purpose but for the dead-weight of her vicious 
father which hung upon her, effectually preventing the 
monotonous pendulum of life from swaying aside. But 
for that she might have yielded to her lover’s pleading 
and have made an attempt to live the dual life of wife 
and artist. 

She moved uneasily in her chair as her quick imagina- 
tion summoned the figure of her father before her — 
selfish, disreputable, hopelessly shabby — and she acknow- 
ledged with a sigh that the sweet lot of wifehood could 
never be hers as long as her father lived ; then with a 
start once more she returned to her old allegiance, and 
she vowed a hundred times that for art she would live 
and die. 

At last the sound of stumbling footsteps ascending the 
stair — oh, so different from the manly tread of her lover ! 
— warned her of her father’s approach. She rose and, 
opening the studio door, stood waiting to admit him. He 
entered, and, pushing past his daughter with a lurch in 
his drunken gait, halted in the middle of the floor, blink- 
ing foolishly at the pale sunlight that hurt his bleared 
and heavy eyes and accentuated with pitiless severity every 
point of degradation in his once handsome physique. 

His dress was negligent and shabby, his grey hair lay 
in unkempt masses about his sodden temples which still 
retained faint traces of intellectual power, and his eyes 
were like his daughter’s — soft, large, and brown — but 
how different was the soul that looked through these 
brown orbs of father and daughter ! 


Father and Daughter . 2 7 

He looked as if the divine soul given to every man at 
his birth had forsaken its unlovely dwelling-place, leaving 
it to the baleful occupancy of an evil spirit ; while she 
stood gazing at him, her eyes preternaturally large with 
unshed tears and expressive of such mingled shrinking 
and pity that her father might well have taken them for 
those of an accusing angel. 

‘ Don’t stand staring there ! ’ he cried angrily. ‘ How 
often must I tell you, Clara, that you admit too much 
sunshine into the studio ? What on earth is to be gained 
by working in such a crude light ? But of course you 
know better than your father, whose only aim in life is 
to form your style and find buyers for your pictures.’ 

Clara moved aside with a sigh. Too well she knew 
where most of the money thus obtained went. 

Her father continued to talk in tremulous and peevish 
tones, and she saw that his nerves were quite unstrung 
by his drinking bout. She sat down patiently, knowing 
from experience that he must be allowed to have his say, 
but wishing — ah, how intensely ! — that the ordeal was 
over. 

* A pretty lot of snubbing I have had to endure from 
that fellow Richardson,’ he complained. ‘ The cad posi- 
tively refuses to give me another shilling until I bring 
him something more attractive to buyers than those paltry 
daubs of children and fruit. He says they just lie about 
his premises — nobody will buy them. You’ll ruin your- 
self, Clara, if you repeat yourself in such trivial work ; 
if you want to get on, you must really go in for some- 
thing important.’ 


28 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


Clara half started from her seat and glanced with a 
look of dismay towards the easel whereon still stood her 
unfinished picture. She had forgotten to hide it — as she 
had done hitherto — from the eyes of her rapacious father. 

Her glance was not lost upon him. He staggered to- 
wards the picture, peering at it with a cunning leer, while 
Clara, advancing, stood behind him with a beating heart. 

‘ Hullo ! Is this your work ? * he exclaimed. ‘ By 
Jove, there’s more in you than I thought ! Won’t we live 
in clover by-and-bye ! And ah, you ungrateful girl, you 
would hide your work from your father ! Isn’t it my 
gift that you have 'inherited ? ’ He began to weep 
maudlin tears, and who can tell in what well-nigh dry 
springs of fatherly pride and artistic ambition those tears 
had their far-away source ? ‘You might have told me, 
Clara ; — it is wonderfully promising for one so young. 
But, if you had asked me, I could have given you a few 
valuable hints in the management of your composition ; — 
no artist of any experience would have placed a strong 
shadow there/ he said, pointing with critical though 
shaky finger to Clara’s canvas. 

She was greatly touched by her father’s artistic apprecia- 
tion, and her thoughts went back to a not very distant 
time before drink had so completely demoralised him, — 
a time when a word of praise from his lips would have 
brightened the day for her. But now his unstable mood 
changed as he reflected on his grievance. 

‘ Why did you keep back this picture ? ’ he asked with 
returning anger. ‘ The idea of allowing your poor old 
father to go hawking about with your studies of wretched 


Father and Datighter. 2 9 

children among the dealers when you had this in the 
studio ! It’s almost finished, and you must have spent 
months on it. I see the reason now why I have been 
kept on such short commons. Didn’t I educate you and 
give you a course of art-training that you might keep me 
in my old age ? However, this picture will sell for some- 
thing worth while. It is too late now for you to send 
it to the R S. A. this year — more’s the pity ; but get it 
finished as soon as you can, and I will get as much as 
possible for it.’ 

Clara impulsively stepped towards the easel, and, lifting 
the painting, set it on the floor with its face to the wall. 
Then she turned to her father and stood like a lioness at 
bay ; and, although her face was white and her hands 
trembled almost as violently as his, he cowered before 
her. 

* You know very well that I have no intention of ex- 
hibiting in the E. S. A. for some years to come. I would 
not get admission,’ she said with a scornful laugh. ‘ This 
picture is not for any exhibition. It is a commission.’ 

‘ A commission — and you never told me ! You work 
on the sly, do you ? ’ said he with a sneer. 

‘Your conduct compels me to do so. How otherwise 
do you suppose that I can get decent clothes ? ’ she in- 
quired bitterly. ‘ But we must clearly understand each 
other here. This picture is my property, and if you dare 
to take it out of the studio, I will never — no, never — touch 
a brush again. You will starve then, you know ; and I 
will rather burn this picture unfinished than run the risk 
of its being bartered for drink. You oblige me to speak 


30 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


plainly. I will leave you unless you promise. But what 
are your promises worth ? * she cried with a gesture of 
despair as her father commenced to pour out profuse 
promises, too glib to be reliable. As he went maundering 
on, poor Clara began to have a dim presage that fame 
might after all prove to be mere apples of Sodom. 

* I only desire your advancement in life,’ he said, ‘ but 
I expect nothing for all my efforts to bring you into 
notice but ingratitude. Lear’s daughters were nothing 
to you. By the way, I saw that high and mighty lover 
of yours lurking about the street as I came along. The 
fellow actually seemed to be watching me! But he 
shuffled off quickly enough when I made tracks towards 
him. Confound his white choker ! perhaps he thought 
he saw a request for half-a-crown in my face.’ 

‘Oh, father, were you really going to ask him for 
money ? * 

* Yes — why not ? He’ll soon be a relation, I suppose. 
What’s the use of a son-in-law except to borrow from ? ’ 

‘ You must not attempt it. It would kill me ! ’ cried 
Clara with agonised blushes burning on her face. ‘ Surely 
you will not humiliate me so ! ’ 

‘Hoity toity! Don’t be so dramatic. Things have 
come to a pretty pass when a chit of a girl tells her father 
what he must or must not do. Where would be the harm 
of asking a few shillings from him ? * 

‘ You must not ! Father, if you will promise me not 
to ask money from Mr. Reid, I will paint you another 
picture — a good one.’ 

She despised herself as she thus compromised with her 


Father and Daughter . 3 1 

father, for she knew that by supplying him with the means 
of obtaining drink she but strengthened the craving whose 
indulgence was dragging him to perdition. Still, she fore- 
saw nothing but humiliation and sorrow if her father put 
his threat of asking money from Norman into execution. 

‘ I’ll tell you what/ said he ; ‘ 111 promise, if you give 
me that picture you are working at. Give it to me just 
now, and you can begin another at once/ 

‘ Have I not told you that it is a commission ? It 
must be sent home by the 26th/ she said with sharp pain 
in her voice. * I will paint you another — no, I will not ! 
I am doing wrong to give you the means of obtaining 
drink. I tell you plainly, father, that if you ask money 
from Norman I won’t marry him, and I won’t stay here ! ’ 

Her father was alarmed — he saw that he had gone too 
far. 

* Come Clara/ he said, * you are not in earnest ? Ho 
you. mean to say that you will throw over Norman if I 
borrow from him ? Why ’ — 

* Yes, I mean it. I will die rather than marry him 
if you humiliate me so ! ’ she cried vehemently. ‘ You 
shall not bring disgrace upon him. You are a bad man ! 
I will say it, although you are my father ; but, remember, 
you can stretch my endurance only to a certain limit. 
Beware of going beyond it, for I will leave you then to 
your own resources. Oh, do you not see how you are 
ruining my chances in my profession — how you are 
ruining yourself and making my life an intolerable 
burden to me ? ’ 

She stopped with a sob. What was the use of ex- 


32 


Norman Reid ’ M.A . 


postulating with one who was the bond-slave of drink ? 
As for her father, he had recourse to his usual weak 
device — he burst into maudlin tears and said, ‘ Clara, my 
little girl, surely you won’t leave your old father lonely ? 
Eemember your promise to your sainted mother ! ’ 

‘ I will remember that promise only so far as I can 
keep it with justice to others. My mother never dreamed 
that you would sink so low, or she would not have im- 
posed such a burden upon me,’ she replied sternly. * If 
you want anything to eat, go up-stairs and I will lock the 
studio door.’ 

He followed her without a word, but his crafty eyes 
pursued her movements with a cunning which was ob- 
served by Clara, who lifted her precious picture, and for 
better security carried it with her to her own chamber. 




CHAPTER IV. 

THE RULING ELDER. 

All things pass. They leave their traces 
On the soul’s undying life, 

Not upon our eager faces, 

Lined with a grosser strife. J. P. F. 

FEW days before that appointed for Norman’s 
ordination, Katie Lawson, his housekeeper, 
might have been seen standing on the broad 
white steps leading from the gravelled sweep 
to the main door of Free St. John’s Manse at Otterton. 

It was about five o’clock on an afternoon in the be- 
ginning of March, and the budding poplar trees that were 
visible above the wall sheltering the Manse garden 
from the gaze of passers-by were in that dreary stage of 
arrested development which is the inevitable effect of the 
bitter east winds that scourge the departing winter. 
Katie, who could see over the wall from her' vantage- 
ground, peered between the straight poplar boughs towards 
the highway that passed the Manse gates, but she saw 
nothing save a blinding cloud of stinging March dust 
sweeping past before the gusty wind, and she watched 
it as it came rushing from the town lying in the near 



34 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


distance — a smoky confusion of factory stalks and grimy 
buildings of all sorts and sizes, pierced here and there 
by a tapering church - spire of dingy red sandstone 
climbing up into the grey sky, through which meandered 
a huge and murky serpent of smoke coiling forth from 
the many tall chimneys of its busy hives of industry. 

Katie, who had a highly dramatic habit of speaking 
aloud when alone, proceeded to give voice to her opinion 
of her future dwelling-place. 

‘ The Manse is weel awa’ frae the town. I’m glad it 
lies so bonnily to the water-side, and it’s a verra guid 
thing, for Otterton is no’ a great toon to live in, judgin’ 
by present appearances. What wi’ stour and smoke, 
I’m glad the mistress is no’ cornin’ jist yet. We’ll get a’ 
the reek that’s gaun, I’m thinkin’, on the washin’ days, 
when the wind is in the south/ said she, casting a pro- 
phetic glance into the future. Then she yawned wearily, 
for, what with cleaning the rooms and planning the 
arrangement and bestowal of the furniture which had 
arrived in vans in the early morning, it had been an 
unusually busy and anxious day for her, and now she 
longed for that womanly panacea for all ills — a cup of 
tea. 

She had been invited by Adam Auld, the minister’s 
man, to drink tea at his cottage, which stood by the 
highway and was just visible from the Manse ; so she 
locked the door and was in the act of descending the 
steps when her departure was arrested by the appearance 
of two gentlemen entering the gate and proceeding in a 
leisurely manner along the gravelled walk towards the 


35 


The Ruling Elder . 

house. Evidently they were in no hurry, and ap- 
parently they did not notice Katie standing impatiently 
on the steps, for they were absorbed in talk, although, 
as Katie was quick to observe, the elder of the two 
took the leading part in the conversation, pausing 
on the path now and then to accentuate his re- 
marks by a condescending touch of his hand upon 
the shoulder of his companion, whose contribution 
to the dialogue consisted mainly of smiles and nods of 
acquiescence. 

‘ Set them up ! * quoth Katie impatiently. * What 
do they want here ? Ye wad think the place belanged 
to them. — Powers aboon ! ’ she suddenly ejaculated 
with a start ; ‘ they're as like ane anither as twa peas ! 
— but only to them that kens, thank the Lord ! ’ she 
added slowly. 

Now, whom could Katie mean ? — for the gentlemen 
approaching were of totally different exterior; one of 
them, in fact, was evidently inferior in position to the 
other. The elder and obviously the chief personage 
was tall, rosy, and grey-haired, while his companion, 
besides being little and dark, had neither the self- 
complacent expression of countenance nor the sleek and 
consequential physical development of the other. 

Katie had time to recover her usual repose of 
manner before they reached her, but she could not 
repress an eager and curious stare which seemed to 
flatter the amour propre of the tall, stout gentleman, who 
held out his plump and ringed hand for the keys dangling 
on Katie’s finger. 


36 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


‘ You may give me the keys, my good woman/ 
said he with a florid smile which aggravated Katie. 
‘You are oqr young ministers housekeeper, I presume. 
I am his neighbour and an elder in Free St. John’s. 
We have come to see that all is in proper order within 
the Manse; and I humbly trust/ said he — anything 
but humbly in Katie’s estimation — ‘ that, by the grace 
of God, Mr. Reid and I will ingather many precious 
fruits of the coming ministry in this corner of the Lord’s 
vineyard.’ 

Katie delivered the keys into his plump, outstretched 
hand through the sheer compulsion of amazement, while 
the elder’s companion said suavely, c With a chosen vessel 
such as you to guide and uphold the ministry, we may 
confidently expect boundless blessing from above, Mr. 
Morgan.’ 

‘ Morgan — that’s the name ! ’ ejaculated Katie, as she 
watched the smiling elder followed by his obsequious 
attendant disappear within the Manse door. ‘ It’s him 
sure enough ! Eh, but the ways o’ the Lord are past 
findin’ oot ! To think o’ seein’ him here ! What will 
the mistress say ? An’ he’s a chosen vessel noo ! ’ 
Katie began to laugh softly. f Him wi’ his “ grace o’ 
God,” an’ his “fruits o’ the ministry ” !’ 

Thus Katie’s monologue murmured on until she 
reached the gate of the garden wherein Adam Auld 
awaited her, leaning on his spade the while and watched 
at a respectful distance by a bright-eyed robin in 
quest of worms. 

Adam was a little wizened-looking man who acted 


The Ruling Elder. 


37 


in the double capacity of minister’s man and jobbing 
gardener. His face was shrewd and much furrowed, and 
his brow was full of curious knotty hollows that looked 
like — and probably were— the graves of many ancient 
memories. His lips, thin and long, modestly retired into 
the ample cavern of his mouth, as if shrinking from 
public view, and his toilworn hands were crooked and 
claw-like through long wielding of the spade, and possibly, 
too, because of an over-abundance of rheumatic acidity in 
their gnarled joints. His face did not as a rule wear a 
very pleasant expression, and his frosty blue eyes looked 
out on his fellow-men somewhat cynically ; but any one 
who desired to see Adam at his best must needs follow 
him — as Katie was doing — along the mossy garden walk 
towards the cottage, where Mysie, his blind niece, kept 
house for him. 

In spite of the retarding east winds, a gay fringe 
of golden crocuses bordered each side of the narrow 
path, and the ancient apple-trees had tiny bud- 
sheaths upon every lichened bough, while the severely- 
pruned gooseberry bushes were tipped with innumer- 
able pink dots that promised well for the coming 
harvest of fruit. 

* It’s a stoory day/ said Adam, by way of open- 
ing the conversation, as he walked by Katie’s side, 
wriggling himself the while into an ancient coat which 
through much exposure to wind and weather, had come 
to have a kind of resemblance to green and russet 
Nature. 

‘ Ay, it is/ said she ; ‘ but they say that “ a peck o’ 


38 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


March dust is worth a king’s ransom.” I’ve gien the 
Manse keys to a master fu’ gentleman ca’d Morgan wha 
seems to be quite at hame here. You’ll ken him, of 
course, Mr. Auld ? ’ Katie could not keep a spice of 
resentment out of her voice, and Adam looked at her 
with a cynical smile. 

‘ Oh ay, I ken him,’ said he. * He’s the owner 
o'* the big foondry ower there by the Waterside ; 
and he’s oor ruling elder; a stoop o’ the kirk, my 
woman — a stoop o’, the kirk and a whited sep — 
Ahem ! Come in by, Mrs. Lawson, and dinna tempt me 
to speak evil o’ dignitaries,’ said Adam significantly ; and 
Katie was silent, although a host of questions trembled 
on her tongue and her thoughts went far into the 
past. 

She followed the old man into a large and com- 
fortable kitchen, ruddy with the welcome glow of 
the dancing fire ; and she noticed with a well-pleased 
smile that a table in the middle of the floor 
was covered with a daintily pure tablecloth, hos- 
pitably spread with all the requisites for a luxurious 
tea. 

Against the light from the window, which looked 
into the garden, stood a young girl whose face Katie 
could not make out in the dusk ; but her attention 
was at once arrested by a quiet womanly figure 
standing leaning with one hand on the tea-table, 
and looking in her own face — so she thought — with a 
very intent gaze. Adam led her up to Katie and said, 
‘Mysie, my lass, this is Mrs. Lawson come at last, 


The Ruling Elder . 39 

and a lang and busy day she’s had o’t. See that ye gie 
her a guid cup o’ tea.’ 

Mysie took Katie’s hand with a smile. 

‘ I’ll dae that,’ said she. * Come into the big chair, 
Mrs. Lawson — the nichts are cauld yet.’ 

‘ I’ll awa’, Mysie,’ said the other young girl, advancing 
from the window abruptly. ‘ I’ll tell you the lave 
again.’ 

‘ Oh, you’re there, Jessie ! * exclaimed Adam, who had 
taken the other arm-chair. ‘This is anither niece o’ 
mine, Mrs. Lawson, and a rael royd lassie she is. Stay 
and tak’ a cup o’ tea wi’ us, if you’re no’ wanted at hame,’ 
he added hospitably. 

‘ She’s wanted at hame, uncle ; she’ll no’ stay the 
nicht,’ interposed Mysie. * Come the morn, J essie ; and 
see that ye gang stracht hame.’ 

Jessie tossed her head as she wrapped herself in a 
plaid. ‘ Uncle,’ she said, going across the floor and 
opening the door, ‘ see that ye leave Mrs. Lawson to 
fin’ oot oor family failin’s hersel’. Dinna tell her 
a’ oor fauts in ae nicht ; ’ — and she was gone, slamming 
the door behind her with a force that made the tea- 
things jingle. 

‘ Oh, that awfu’ lassie ! ’ said Adam as he placed a 
chair for Katie at the table and took his seat opposite ; 
* she’s aye daein’ and sayin’ things she shouldna.’ 

* And she’s weel telt o’t too,* said Mysie, deftly pouring 
out the tea. * She’s ower weel telt o’t indeed. The 
lassie says she’s sick 0’ gettin’ advice from everybody.’ 

‘ And yet I’ll wager she cam’ to ye for mair ! * said 


40 Norman Reid \ M.A. 

Adam with a cynical smile. ‘Is your tea to your mind, 
Mrs. Lawson ? ’ 

‘ Ay is it ! * said Katie emphatically. ‘ It’s as fine a 
cup o’ tea as ever I tasted, and your oat-cakes beat a’ ! * 
She pointed to a thin ‘ farl ’ of oatmeal cake as she 
spoke. ‘ Do you mak’ them yoursel’ ? * 

‘Na; that’s Jessie’s wark. She’s a clever lass wi’ her 
hands. I used to bake — but no’ noo.’ 

‘ Ye wadna think my Mysie was blind ? * said Adam 
with a pathetic smile that transformed his rugged face. 

‘ Blind ! ’ cried Katie in amazement, — ‘ wi’ sic bonnie 
open een and handy ways ! No, I wadna hae thocht it.’ 

‘ I wasna aye blind,’ said Mysie simply. ‘ It’s no’ sae 
lang since I could see the sky, and the garden, and this 
bit hoosie too. And I ken fine hoo my uncle looks, 
although he’s bound to be growin’ a wee thocht aulder 
noo, for a’ Jessie says that there’s no’ a grey hair in his 
heid yet.’ 

Katie stared, for Adam wore a wig of bushy red, but 
she wisely held her peace in response to an anxious nod 
and a wink from the old man. 

‘ No,’ said he, ‘ there’s no’ a grey hair in a’ my heid ; it’s 
aye the same bonnie colour that ye mind sae weel. It’s 
as red as ever, Mysie, my doo — jist like your ain, ye ken.’ 

‘ Yes ; the same as my ain. Jim Borland likes it 
weel. He says it’s like gold wi’ a glint o’ fire flichterin’ 
i’ the heart o’t ’ — 

‘ He’s aye fu’ o’ high-soundin’ nonsense,’ interrupted 
Adam. ‘ We’ll no’ speak o’ him the nicht. Will ye help 
Mrs. Lawson to anither cup o’ tea ? ’ 


The Ruling Elder. 4 r 

Katie had never all her life before been reduced 
to such prolonged silence. She looked with a sen- 
sation of awe at the blind girl's lovely face, so sad, 
so thoughtful, so youthful, for Mysie was but twenty- 
one ; and in its pale glow she felt the influence of 
an indefinable charm — not the skin-deep charm of 
beauty, though Mysie possessed that too — but a 
nameless expression of gentle power as of one to whom 
the outer world had become of minor importance 'to the 
world within. 

At this moment a knock was heard at the door, and 
Adam rose to open it. 

c Ah, Adam ! these are the Manse keys. I believe 
that Mr. Reid’s housekeeper is with you,’ said the strident 
voice of Mr. Morgan. ‘ Give her the keys, will you ? 
Mysie well ? Good-night ; ’ and without waiting for his 
questions to be answered he walked rapidly away. Adam 
shut the door and returned to his chair. 

‘ I houp ye heard him. He meant ye to dae’t, at 
ony rate. A’thing Morgan does maun be telt frae the 
hoose-tap. There’s the keys, Mrs. Lawson, but ye needna 
gang awa’ into the empty Manse until bed- time, at ony 
rate. Sit doon a while and gie’s your crack.’ 

4 Yes,’ said Mysie ; ‘ draw your chair nearer the 
fire and I’ll licht the gas. Are ye gaun hame the 
morn ? ’ 

* Ay, I maun be hame by efternune,’ replied Katie, 
watching the blind girl as she put the tea-things aside, 
lighted the gas, and stirred the fire into a brighter blaze 
before she sat down beside her uncle. 


4 


42 Norman Reid , M.A. 

* Does Mr. Morgan belang here awa’ ? * said Katie after 
a pause. 

* No* exactly ; but his father did/ said Adam, lighting 
his pipe. ‘ He was the owner o’ Otterbank Foondry, and 
when he dee’d it fell to his only son — oor Mr. Morgan 
— wha was in foreign parts at the time, pushin’ the trade ; 
but he has lived here since ever his father dee’d. His 
mither is deid too, and so is his only sister. I could tell 
ye a story aboot her / added Adam garrulously. 

‘ Hoo lang will it be since the father dee’d ? * said 
Katie, ignoring Adam’s last words. 

‘ No’ that lang ; a matter o’ ten years or thereaboot/ 

‘And hoo lang wad this Mr. Morgan be abroad, ken ye?* 

‘ Oh, let me see, noo — maybe thirteen or fourteen 
years,’ answered Adam after a pause. 

‘ Fourteen years/ said Katie to herself ; ‘ that mak’s my 
guess richt.’ Aloud she said, * He’s verra wealthy, isna 
he, and verra liberal to the kirk, eh ? The foondry ’ll 
be a payin’ concern ? * 

Adam looked curiously at Katie through a meditative 
cloud of smoke as he replied, — 

* Ay ; it’s a payin’ concern, sure enough. He’s verra 
rich, but his wark-folk can tell ye that his kirk charities 
are screwed oot o’ their pouches. There’s a lot o’ dis- 
content i’ the foondry, and gin times were brisker and 
hands no* sae easily got, there wad be a strike, I dinna 
doot, for mair wages ; but Morgan wad be sure to haud 
oot till starvation point. He wad get his ain way i’ the 
lang-run — he wadna mind smotherin’ the bees efter he 
had grabbit the honey. Dae ye ken him ? 9 


The Ruling Elder . 43 

‘ Me ! No. Hoo should I ken him ? * said Katie 
with a start. 

‘ Oh, I thocht maybe ye did. He’s no’ a guid ane,* 
said he, shaking his head slowly. 

; Softly, uncle ! * said Mysie’s quiet voice. ‘ “ Judge 
not, that ye he not judged,” ye ken.’ 

‘ That’s a’ verra weel, Mysie, but the honest truth 
maun oot; and I’m sure I wad rather be auld drucken 
Rab Reyburn greetin’ wi’ shame when the drink’s no’ in 
him than I wad be yon smooth-tongued, self-righteous 
Pharisee.’ 

‘ Is he a’ that ? ’ said Katie, athirst for information. 

‘ Ay is he ; and ye needna think to shut my inooth, 
Mysie, for ye ken weel that the Lord Hissel’ couldna awa’ 
wi’ hypocrites,’ said Adam. 

‘ That’s true enough, uncle, but He had clearer een than 
you can possibly have, ye ken ; and ye maun mind that 
Mr. Morgan is an elder 0’ the kirk, and that Mrs. Lawson 
will think ye have unco little guid to tell o’ him. Is 
Mr. Reid married, may I spier ? ’ said Mysie, changing 
the subject. 

* No ; and I hope there’s no inveiglin’ hizzies in 
Otterton,’ quoth Katie with a grim smile. 

Mysie laughed. ‘ Are his father and mither alive ? ’ 
she asked. 

‘His mither is; but she’s a delicate cratur and has 
been awa’ in the south 0’ France a’ winter. They couldna 
spare me very sair,’ said Katie proudly. ‘And I hope 
that Norman — Mr. Reid, I mean — will be happy amang 
the kirk-folk here. Ye have gotten a guid minister and 


44 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


a fine man, I can tell ye. There’s no’ mony like him, 
though I say it that shouldna.’ 

4 We’ve heard a verra favourable report o’ him,’ said 
Adam. ‘ But he’s fell young for sic a big chairge. It’s 
to be houped that he’ll do mair guid in this wicked toon 
than oor last minister. He was aboon his wark, bless ye ! 
— unco ill to put up wi’ and aye speakin’ aboot uphaudin’ 
the dignity o’ the claith. Begs, he was a’ claith and 
naething but claith — a puir specimen o’ a man ! ’ 

A whistle was heard as Adam spoke, and a quick step 
passed the window. Mysie rose, a sudden blush dyeing 
her pale cheeks, and the door was opened, admitting 
a gust of wind and rain. A young man stood in the 
doorway, surprised apparently at the presence of a 
stranger. 

‘ Is it rainin’ ? Come in and shut the door, Jim/ said 
Adam, while Mysie brought forward a chair for the new- 
comer, who shook the rain off his cap and stood looking 
at Katie. ‘ This is Mrs. Lawson, oor new minister’s 
hoosekeeper,’ said Adam ; ‘ and this is Jim Borland come 
to see Mysie as usual,’ he added with a smile. ‘ You’ll 
soon ken us a’, Mrs. Lawson ; Jim is Jessie’s brither, ye 
maun ken.’ 

As the young man acknowledged Katie’s salutation he 
approached the fire, and Katie, observing how wet his coat 
was, became suddenly seized with a desire to return to 
the Manse. She rose therefore, and proceeded to tie her 
bonnet-strings. 

‘ I’ll better be gaun,’ she said ; ‘ the Manse windows 
are open in a’ this rain. It’s high time I was awa’. 


45 


The Rilling Elder . 

Ha, na, Mr. Auld, you’re no’ to think o’ gaun oot on my 
accoont ; I can find the road brawly.’ But Adam had 
already got his hat and plaid and stood waiting to 
accompany her after all the good-nights were said. 

As the twain went out into the blustering night a 
chill drizzle of rain dashed into their faces, and Adam 
had to speak loudly so that his voice might reach Katie, 
struggling along under her umbrella. 

‘ That’s a godless fellow that’s so chief wi’ Mysie,’ he 
said. ‘ They were sweethearts afore she turned blind, 
and the lad winna stay awa\ Does he think I wad 
gie my ae ewe lamb to him ? — a scoffin’ Badical 
fellow ! The men at the foondry ca’ him “ Jim the 
Socialist.” ’ 

‘But he canna think o’ marryin’ the lassie if she’s 
blind ! ’ cried Katie through the rain. 

‘ That’s jist exactly what he wants to dae ! * said Adam. 
‘ He’s rael set upon her, but he winna get her. To speak 
truth, the lad hasna been weel guided ; he has an awfu’ 
father. — Lord ! the rulin’ elder’s religion is nae thing to 
Bob Borland’s. He’s my brither-in-law — mair’s the pity.’ 

‘ What objection can ye have to a man’s religion, Mr. 
Auld ? ’ 

‘ I’ve nae objection to religion ; it’s the man , my woman. 
He’s a perfect hee-haw o’ a man wi’ a mind as narrow 
as the rim o’ a bawbee. He’s aye bletherin’ about 
election and liell-fire, but I’m geyan sure that his religion 
is naething but thrawnness and indigestion.’ 

‘ That’s a puir accoont to gie o’ your freend,’ said Katie. 

‘ He’s an elder o’ the kirk forbye,’ nodded Adam, ‘ and 


4 6 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


he’s a worthy second to Morgan, wha has made him his 
foreman moulder i’ the foondry for his ain ends — for deil 
kens he’s but a second-rate workman. But he’s Morgan’s 
tool — the lion’s provider, ye ken. Mind the dubs, Mrs. 
Lawson — it’s really an awfu’ rain ! ’ 

‘ It wad likely be him that cam’ to the Manse wi’ 
Morgan this efternune ? * said Katie. 'A wee black 
body, aye cheepin’ “ yes ” to a’ the big man said ? ’ 

‘ ’Od, woman, that’s him ! ’ cried Adam delightedly. 
* Losh, you and me’ll get on fine thegither ! — ye’ve a grand 
e’e for character. He’s aye cheepin’, as ye say ; — his 
very boots gang cheepity-cheep doon the kirk passage on 
Sawbath. Eh, but he’s a bit peewit o’ a cratur ! ’ 

* And he’s an elder too, is he ? ’ said Katie, trudging on. 

* Ay ; but let me tell ye, my woman, Mr. Keid will 
soon fin’ oot that the leaven o’ his kirk is no’ amang its 
elders and deacons by ony means. ’Od no ! the leaven o’ 
Free St. John’s is a wheen puir auld wives and totterin’ 
bodies wi’ a lot o’ trauchled mithers and a twa-three douce 
fellows that sit i’ the back seats, alang wi’ a sprinklin’ o’ 
young folk that keep the birr up. Morgan and his elect 
dinna ken them .’ 

1 I’m thinkin’ that Mr. Reid will hae his ain ado among 
ye a’,’ said Katie. ‘ I wish he may find it pleasant.’ 

‘ If he’s a lad o’ smeddum, there’s nae fear ; and — mind 
ye— it’s a fine chairge for a’ I hae said ! The collections 
are big. It’s my brither-in-law that looks efter the 
schemes o’ the kirk. He’s the money-bag o’ the hale 
concern, and he thinks the cause o’ the Lord’s no’ pros- 
perin’ unless the bawbees are reemin’ ower the plate ; — 


The Ruling Elder . 


47 


no’ but what a sma’ collection speaks for itsel’ on a rainy 
Sawbath,’ concluded Adam sagely. * Dinna let on to 
Mysie that I gae ye my candid opinion o’ Borland. 
There’s a rowth o’ guid folk i’ the kirk, ye ken/ 

‘ It’s to be hoped sae,’ said Katie dryly. ‘ Oh, here’s 
the Manse gate. Dinna come ony farther, Mr. Auld. 
Ye’ve been verra guid company.’ 

‘ Weel, guid-nicht. I think ye’ll fin’ your ain way noo,’ 
said Adam as he turned back and plodded homeward 
through the rain. 




'CHAPTER V. 

CLARA’S CHOICE. 

Who shall say that Fortune grieves him 
While the star o’ hope she leaves him? 

Me, nae cheerfu’ twinkle lights me; 

Dark despair around benights me. Burns. 

BOUT three weeks after his former visit 
Norman again sought Clara in the studio 
with the express intention of coming to a 
mutual understanding regarding the future. 
But when she appeared before him, smiling so wanly as 
she opened the door, his heart smote him, and he hesitated 
to broach the subject uppermost in his thoughts. 

Her face — so pathetic in its small, pale oval — bore 
the traces of extreme mental exhaustion, for she had had 
a long morning’s work at the easel ; and, moreover, her 
father had once more wheedled and bullied her into 
painting a picture for him to take to the dealer, and the 
knowledge that she had weakly given in to him in spite of 
the voice of conscience, along with his peevish impatience 
while she laboured at the uncongenial task, acted like the 
prick of a goad upon her already overburdened brain. 

‘ Won’t you stop working for to-day, and walk with me, 

48 



Clara s Choice. 


49 

Clara ? * said Norman. ‘ Do put on your hat and leave 
this stifling studio.’ 

‘ I cannot ; I have promised to finish this picture by 
to-morrow.’ 

‘ Is it another commission ? Let me congratulate you ! ’ 

‘No, it is not a commission,’ answered Clara, who 
was uncompromisingly truthful in word and act. ‘I 
promised my father’ — 

She broke off with a blush of shame, and Norman rose 
hastily and began to pace the floor. He paused in front 
of her after a moment and said gently, — 

‘ Clara, let me speak seriously to you. You really ought 
not to give your father the means of procuring drink. If 
he had absolutely no money to spend, he would be forced 
to face the question of abstinence. By yielding to hL 
demands you root his vice more firmly in his nature, an( 
you prepare for yourself a future of remorse. Forgiv 
me, dearest ; indeed you err in this matter. Your fathe 
needs a stronger hand than yours to curb his depravei 
appetite for drink.’ 

‘ My conscience has been uneasy for some time,’ she 
replied in a low voice. ‘ But if you only knew — I am 
sure that you are right, Norman. But what can I do ? ’ 

‘ You must look the difficulty straight in the face, 
Clara. Your father is rapidly going from bad to worse, 
and it is high time that stringent measures were adopted. 
It is a disease which must be treated like other diseases. I 
wish that you would give me the right to decide for you.’ 

She moved uneasily. 

‘ Don’t, Norman ! * she said. * Give me a little longer 
5 


50 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


to think over the matter. I know that I am acting in a 
very capricious way, and I wonder that you do not despise 
me for it. I promise to give you a definite answer on 
the night before you leave for Otterton.’ 

* Very well, my darling/ replied Norman. * That will 
be about three weeks hence/ 

‘ I know I am selfish, Norman ; but indeed you would 
not harass me if you only knew how I am torn with conflict/ 
‘ Harass you ! Oh, my darling ! * said he with sad 
surprise ; * I did not know that I was doing so ; but 
when I see you looking so pale and sad, my heart leaps 
forth to shield you/ 

4 Oh, Norman, I am so weary of striving, and yet I 
cannot rest ! Everything is changing, and I sometimes 
think that even my ideal is but a mean, self-seeking 
ambition after all/ 

‘ Clara, believe me, love alone can satisfy the soul. 
Love — human first of all, leading ultimately to love 
divine ; and I am convinced that for you above all women 
love is a necessity. But I will say no more/ 

‘No; let there be silence between us until — But, 
Norman, I wish — I wish that you would take the decision 
into your own hands and go away, forgetting ’ — 

‘ Hush ! that is impossible, my dearest/ said Norman, 
kissing her upturned face. ‘ We will say no more about 
it just now. I will go home and come again for my 
answer on the night before I leave Edinburgh/ 

On the morrow the picture was duly finished and 
carried off by Clara’s father in search of a purchaser. 

She knew from bitter experience that he would not 


Claras Choice . 


5i 


return until the money was exhausted ; so she sought to 
soothe her sad heart by steadily working at that other 
picture, whereon she was lavishing her utmost talent and 
which was already overdue. The days went swiftly past 
while she was thus engrossed, and it was only when the 
twilights came, compelling her to rest awhile, that she 
yielded to the conflict between love and art. She, as we 
have seen, had agreed with Norman that he should not 
come near the studio while her decision hung in the 
balance ; but sometimes, when the loneliness pressed 
upon her and her heart beat loudly, thinking that she 
heard her father’s stumbling feet on the stair, she wished 
that she had not so entirely denied herself Norman’s 
kindly presence. 

It was an unnatural life for a young girl to lead, 
and even Norman did not apprehend how poor and 
lonely she was. If he had known of those days of 
incessant toil and frequent fasting and those fear- 
laden nights, not all his scruples about interfering, nor 
even his promise to leave her to herself, would have 
deterred him from bearing his darling forth with righteous 
indignation and pity. 

Her father returned about a week after his departure, 
ill in body and in mind as was to be expected. Clara — 
alas j — was accustomed to such crises in his drunken 
career. She procured the help of a neighbour in nursing 
him, and after the first mad delirium of illness had passed 
away he became more manageable, although she revolted 
almost as deeply against his moods of unstable penitence 
as she did against his active wickedness and insane fury. 


52 


Norman Reid y M.A. 


She had lost faith in his sentimental protestations 
and abundant tears, for she suspected, poor girl, that 
his moral nature bad become too perverted to be 
capable of true repentance, and she knew very well 
that with returning strength of body his fervid vows 
of amendment would evaporate into air. He wearied 
her too with his exacting demands upon her time, and 
at rare intervals she left him in charge of the kind 
sharer of her sick-room duties, and escaped from the 
house and the * builded desolation * of the city, to 
wander among the slopes of the Pentlands or the green 
solitudes of the nearer Braid Hills. 

She spent every spare hour upon her commissioned 
picture, and at length there came an afternoon when the 
last touches were added and she stood gazing upon it with 
a full heart. On the morrow it was to be sent off to the 
gentleman who had ordered it ; so, after she had carefully 
lifted it from the easel, she carried it to her room, intend- 
ing to take a last look at it before screwing it into the 
packing-case awaiting it in the studio. Her father was 
now convalescent, although he was still confined to bed ; 
and, as it had been his habit of late to take a long sleep 
in the afternoon, she thought that he might safely be left 
alone for a few hours while she took a much longed-for 
walk. 

In the evening she expected Norman, and she had been 
so engrossed with her picture that she found herself un- 
prepared to meet him with the definite answer she had 
promised. This troubled her as she walked through the 
streets, until at length the throng of people and the busy 


Claras Choice . 


53 


thoroughfares were left behind, and there was nothing to 
interpose between her thoughts and the calm spaces of 
nature. 

She pondered as she walked, weighing with a coldness 
and deliberation strange in one so young the alternatives 
that presented themselves in her life. Love or Art ! — 
which should it be ? And still as she wandered on, her 
thoughts rang the changes on Love and Art — Art and 
Love. 

It was a clear and tranquil March evening, and the 
tawny-rose light from the setting sun made a glory of 
the western sky. 

She followed the wimpling course of the Braid Burn, 
noting with all an artist’s delight how fast the young 
verdure on its banks was superseding the russet and 
sapless herbage that had survived the winter. The 
sedges were beginning to lift their green lances in lusty 
companies beside the shining water, and a few graceful 
saugh trees bending eastward like the prayerful Persians 
of old already showed a misty gossamer of grey buds 
against the luminous evening sky. The sun was dis- 
appearing behind Craiglockhart Hill, casting over all the 
homely scene a glamour of mysterious colour, and Clara’s 
impressionable soul thrilled with awe as she glanced 
onwards to the massive Pentlands, whose pastoral soli- 
tudes were brooding amid the swift-coming shadows of 
the night. 

She paused to carry away a mental picture of the 
wondrous scene. Then, retracing her steps, she slowly 
walked homeward, and lo ! a new land of enchantment 


54 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


lay before her, for the warm green sides of the broad- 
bosomed Braids were aglow with rosy rays from the 
north-western sky, and in the distance the leonine profile 
of Arthur’s Seat lay regally purple under the clear cold 
heavens. 

A gentle breeze sprang up, swaying the pendulous 
boughs of the saughs and rippling the streamlet into a 
chiller grey, and the vesper song of an early thrush rang 
out into the air. 

As Clara walked quietly on, insensibly the calm that 
abides with nature entered into her mood. Perfect peace, 
for the first time for many weeks, possessed her soul, and 
her artistic perceptions, re-asserting themselves, dominated 
her whole being once more. 

Love ! — What was love in comparison with the ever- 
lasting revelations of this fair nature around her ? Her 
passion for art rushed over her heart in a flood- tide of 
new resolve ; her uplifted face grew white and tense with 
emotion, and suddenly she stretched out her arms to the 
unheeding majesty of the mountains and sky and renewed 
her vows to live for art alone. 

And yet she was conscious all the while of the price 
that art would demand of her. She knew that she was 
voluntarily sacrificing love and all the sweet blessings 
that are a woman’s birthright. What was it for which 
she was thus resigning that sacred birthright ? — Poverty, 
ceaseless endeavour, painful and persistent climbing up- 
ward to the hill- tops of the mirage-like ideal in weariness, 
hunger, loneliness, disappointment. 

‘Well, so be it!’ she said as she resumed her home- 


Claras Choice . 


55 


ward way, feeling cold and tremulous after her outburst 
of emotion ; ‘ art is worth it all ; and I will try to per- 
suade Norman that he will be happier without me — after 
a while.’ But her heart sank as she pondered over all 
that was involved in this deliberate renunciation of love, 
and once more she found herself in the grip of the old 
conflict. 

It is unnecessary to follow her through the laby- 
rinthine mazes of perplexing doubts and contending 
resolves. Suffice it to say that finally she abjured what 
all her woman’s heart cried out for, and elected to pursue 
art at any cost. 

There is no doubt that the thought of her father in- 
fluenced her decision, for she shrank with ever-increasing 
shame from the bare idea of subjecting Norman to future 
and certain disgrace at his hands. 

The time had passed with unheeded haste, and as she 
wended her homeward way, the sky was gleaming softly 
with the mellow after-glow, and the city scintillated with 
its myriad lights. At last she reached home with the 
calm not of beneficent nature but of bootless despair in 
her heart, and, ascending the dark stair, opened the door 
of her father’s chamber with an anxious apology for her 
long absence. But the words were arrested on her lips, 
for the room was empty ! She looked and looked again, 
unable to credit the evidence of her eyes, but the bed 
was tossed and vacant — its tenant gone ! She flew to the 
studio with a growing terror in her heart — but he was 
not there. 

Swift as thought she sped to her own chamber and 


56 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


sought for the precious picture which she had hidden 
there. Alas, alas ! it was gone, and with it fled courage 
and hope, as, with a low cry of intense anguish, she fell 
prostrate upon the floor, to battle there alone with her 
grief. 




CHAPTER VI. 

LOVE LIES BLEEDING. 

When some beloved voice that was to you 
Both sound and sweetness faileth utterly, 

And silence against which you dare not cry, 

Aches round you like a strong disease and new, 

What hope? What help? E. B. Browning. 

N hour or two later, while Clara was still battling 
with her disappointment and anguish, Norman 
was on his way to seek her ; for that night 
he was to know the fate of his love. That 
night he would know if his future lot was to be crowned 
with the companionship of the only woman in the world 
for him, or if that sweetest of human joys was to be 
sacrificed for an inexperienced girl’s visionary dream of 
fame. 

His heart beat very rapidly as he stood at the studio 
door. He dared not hope too much, and yet he could 
not bear to contemplate Clara’s life and his own as re- 
mote from each other. She heard his step and opened 
the door, but he started aghast at the look of stony grief 
in her face. 

* Clara, dearest ! what is wrong ? ’ he exclaimed. 

57 



58 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


She threw her hands over her face and burst into a 
•passion of tears, called forth by the loving pity in his voice. 

* My father ! ’ — was all she could say. 

‘ Yes ; what of him ? Is he ill ? * 

'He has taken away my picture, and — and — oh, I 
had hoped so much ! * she said brokenly. 

Was Norman to be blamed for the quick throb of 
satisfaction with which he listened to her story, told 
with many sobs and tears ? He could not suppress that 
thrill of joy even in the presence of her grief, and he 
folded her in his arms half in triumph as she spoke. The 
picture gone ! The father revealed at last in his utter 
depravity ! Now, indeed, was love’s supreme opportunity. 
His thoughts were in a tumult while he listened as closely 
as he could to Clara’s narrative. 

‘ And you say that you left him in bed, apparently too 
weak to get up ? * 

~ ‘ Yes ; he cannot have gone far. Oh, if I only knew 
where to look for him ! He is really ill this time, 
Norman,’ she said pathetically in answer to her lover’s 
look of unbelief. 

‘ How long is it since you came in and found him gone?* 

* About an hour ago. I followed him as soon as I was 
able to the dealer’s shop where he usually disposes of my 
work, but he had not been there. I have sought for him 
in every place that I thought he was likely to be, but I 
have seen neither him nor my picture.’ 

Too well did Norman know that the wretched man 
had haunts unknown to his innocent daughter. He set 
his lips firmly together to prevent him from venting his 


59 


Love Lies Bleeding . 

righteous anger upon the man who was Clara’s father, 
for he knew that she would not brook any expression of 
such a feeling. He tenderly stroked her dark hair, 
thankful that in this trial she turned instinctively to 
him. The loving caress suggested the reason of her 
lover’s presence. 

* I had gone out to think over things,’ she said in a 
low voice; ‘and, Norman, I think it right to tell you 
that I came home with my mind made up to let love go. 
Now everything is chaotic again. — My father has deceived 
me ; he has proved false indeed, and now I see that he 
will spare nothing. Now nothing seems of any import- 
ance to me — I am weary of this disappointing life. Fame 
itself does not seem worth striving for. Oh, my father ! 
I would have done so much for you ! ’ She stopped, 
choked with sobs. 

‘ Clara,’ said Norman pitifully, ‘ he is not worth your 
love ; — he is not worth any sacrifice from you.' 

She shook her head. ‘ I am very desolate,’ she said. 

‘ But you need not be ! ’ cried Norman. ‘ Why will 
you thus persistently thrust me aside ? If you feel so 
desolate now — ah, what loneliness will be yours in the 
years to come if you send me away ! I tell you again, 
Clara, your art will not suffice you. I believe that it 
would be sufficient for some women, but never for you. 
Give up this most unnatural struggle, my dearest. I 
honestly confess that to me your difficulty is imaginary. 
Many married women follow the bent of their genius, 
cheered on by domestic love, — yes, and find fame too 
without neglecting any of the sacred duties of home. 


6o 


Norman Reid ' M.A. 


Why should not that be your lot ? You have never 
said that you do not love me — you dare not ! * he cried 
almost fiercely as he rose and looked down on her where 
she sat by the cheerless hearth. 

‘ It is true. I do love you/ she said, lifting her 
eyes to his with a cold and abstracted gaze which 
provoked him ; * but I wish — oh, how I wish ! — I could 
make you understand that, beside the gift which I 
hiow is mine, even love is pale. Love lies on a lower 
level in my life than it> does with most women. It is 
not absolutely desired and necessary. There are more 
things in the world than love for me — sorrow, perhaps.’ 

‘ And to me love is all the world/ said Norman as he 
moved restlessly about the studio, his eyes falling at every 
turn upon many silent witnesses to the truth of Clara’s 
assertion ; — brushes, canvases, sketches, all the artistic 
equipments of a studio told a tale of unmistakable 
devotion to art. It might have been a man’s room, so 
devoid was it of feminine belongings, although there 
was an atmosphere of purity and a certain dainty 
nicety of cleanliness which rescued its appointments 
from the confusion and litter so generally inseparable 
from the artistic workshop. 

* There is something lacking in your love, Clara, or you 
would feel as I do/ said Norman after a pause. 

‘ I admit it. You had better let me go, Norman. I 
tell you candidly that I would weary of love if it deprived 
me of time and freedom to cultivate my art.’ 

‘ Have you a heart at all ? ’ he burst out in anger. 
‘ Weary of love ! You are mad. I don’t believe that 



NORMAN AND CLARA. —Page. 61 





















* 







































































Love Lies Bleeding. 61 

you will succeed in your pursuit of fame if you follow it 
in such a heartless manner/ 

Clara shivered and turned away as he advanced 
towp^ds her. 

‘ hare well, Clara ! * he said with a tremble in his deep 
voice. ‘ I will no longer submit to be tossed hither and 
thither — the whim of a girl’s unstedfast heart. Love 
need no longer be a stumbling-block in your path. You 
have wilfully chosen a rough path and a lonely, and you 
have already trampled upon one heart which stood in 
your way. How, therefore, can you expect happiness — 
you — a woman — after disowning love ? Think some- 
times of me that your sorrow may be as keen as it 
deserves to be. I will not say that you have blighted 
my life, for a man may outlive his love — a woman 
never can/ 

He touched her bent brow with his lips and 
turned to go, when a cry of despair burst from her lips, 
and she threw herself at his feet in an abandonment of 
grief. 

* Oh, Norman, Norman ! Are you cursing me ? * she 
cried. ‘ I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it from you ! * 

He stooped, and, raising her gently, led her to a chair. 

* I am not cursing you, my poor child. God forbid ! 
he said, standing pitifully by her side. 1 On the contrary, 
I have to bless you and thank you for the love which has 
brightened the past ; but I must repeat that I would be 
less than man if I could not in the future do without 
it. Rest assured that its remembrance shall be to me 
a sacred thing — a silent joy which will never inter- 


6 2 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


fere with my duties as the years roll on. But if at 
any time you have need of me — if you change your mind 
— oh, my dearest ! ’ — his voice faltered with the strength 
of his love, — ‘ let me know. Allow nothing to hinder 
you from letting me know, for I shall never cease to love 
you. Good-bye/ 

So saying, he hurried from the studio ; and, as the door 
closed behind him, Clara sank .back in her chair in an 
agony of regret. She listened to his footsteps descending 
the stair. Could it be that she would never hear them 
more ? The thought was maddening. She sprang to her 
feet, and, flinging everything but love’s sore need aside, 
she flung open the door, and cried aloud in a shrill and 
desperate voice, — 

‘ Norman, Norman ! Oh, come back ! * 

He heard her, and his face grew white. 

‘ Oh, come back ! * she cried again ; and he sprang 
up the stair, and in a moment they two were 
clasped fast in an embrace as strong and passionate 
as if they had escaped from the brink of another 
world. 

‘ Now, indeed, I shall never let you go ! * cried he 
rapturously, kissing her again and again. ‘ Own, you 
cruel one, that love is best ! ’ 

* I cannot do without it ; but oh, Norman, what if I 
should mar our future by becoming discontented ? I do 
not understand myself/ she said with a sigh ; * I thought 
that I could do without you.’ 

‘ But you cannot ! ’ cried Norman triumphantly. * Come 
and let us dance among my fallen rivals — the easel and 


Love Lies Bleeding . . 63 

the paint-boxes ! * and in the exuberance of his joy he 
waltzed her round the room. 

* Be quiet, you silly boy ! * cried Clara breathlessly. ‘ I 
wonder what the sober people at Otterton would think if 
they saw you now ? * 

* Oh, they would wish they were in my position ! ’ 

* What ! all of them ? — the old maids and the young 
ladies too ? Don’t be so silly, Norman.’ 

‘Not after to-night, my dear; but to-night I really 
must dance over these paint-boxes. Come ! Tra, la, la ! 
Tra, la, la ! I have conquered the paint-boxes ! ’ 

‘ But, Norman, do listen a moment ; I am terribly in 
earnest.’ 

‘ Yes, yes, I know ! That is your chief fault,’ cried he 
playfully, leaning against the wall to recover from his 
exertion. 

‘ But, Norman, what is to become of us if I should find 
the walls of home too narrow ? Oh, Norman, I am very 
much afraid that I shall pine for freedom to follow my 
art. I am afraid that I may reproach you in the years 
to come.’ 

‘ Nay, Clara, but I am not afraid ! Believe me, the 
love which has conquered you in spite of yourself will 
dwarf those visions of solitary fame. Why, my dear, 
when you are a great artist, how proud I shall be when 
you will turn to me and say, ‘ If I had not married you, 
I would never have painted so well.” And I will laugh 
at you and quote, — 

’Tis not your work, but Love’s. Love, unperceived, 

A more ideal artist he than all, 

Came, drew your pencil from you — 


64 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


Yes, Clara, love alone can guide your brush. Take my 
word for that, for you know, — 

I am Sir Oracle, 

And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark. 

Clara laughed, but at heart she was uneasy, for with 
the keen prevision of an imaginative temperament she 
foresaw all the difficulties of reconciling the essential 
duties of married life and the imperious demands of 
art. 

She was not quite happy even with her lover’s arms 
around her, for she felt that she had weakly declined from 
her lofty ideal upon the lower range — as she considered it 
— of love and ease. Her conscience whispered of instincts 
stifled, of aspirations never to be realised, of treachery to 
what she still held to be her true vocation. And yet she 
loved him, and she felt with a pang that her ambitious 
dreams of fame were cold indeed without the rosy glow 
from love’s sun to warm the steep and snowy mountains 
of endeavour. 

Well might Norman gaze at her grave face with an 
uneasy premonition of the instability of his happiness, for 
he divined that he had surprised her into surrender at a 
moment when her hopes of success had sustained a rude 
shock, and when all her little world threatened to fall in 
ruins at her feet. 

* And now, let us talk of what is to be done for your 
father,* said Norman firmly. 

Clara’s face flushed, and she looked up appealingly. 

‘It must be evident to you, Clara, that stronger measures 
must be taken than have ever yet been tried. Don’t you 


65 


Love Lies Bleeding . 

see that he will stick at nothing to obtain drink ? Will 
you leave the matter in my hands ? Do not fear that I 
will deal unkindly by him — he is your father, my darling; 
hut you must acknowledge that something effective must 
be done ? ’ 

* Yes/ said she in a low voice. ‘ What do you propose, 
Norman ? I will be guided by you.* 

‘That’s my true darling! Between us, we must persuade 
him. to go into a home for inebriates/ 

Clara shuddered and put her hands before her eyes. 
She felt very keenly upon this painful subject and shrank 
from it sensitively. Norman saw that he must open 
her eyes more fully — even if somewhat rudely — to the 
desperate depravity of her drunken father. He knew of 
secrets in the life of the wretched man — of evil deeds and 
vile haunts which he dared not bring before this pure- 
minded maiden who clung so pathetically to the frayed 
cords of filial love which her lover’s hand, * cruel only 
to be kind/ was about to sever. 

‘ Clara, dearest/ he said, drawing her closer to his side, 
‘ look back over your life with your father. Has he ever 
done an unselfish act ? Has he ever studied your feelings 
or regarded your womanly scruples ? Has he ever denied 
himself any pleasure which he knew must be wrung out 
of your toilsome days ? You know he has not/ 

* But my mother left him in my charge/ faltered Clara. 

‘ She did not realise any more than you did to what 

depths a depraved drunkard may sink. She was little 
more than a girl herself when she died, and your father 
blighted her life. He is a bad man as well as a weakling, 


66 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


and I will not insult you by telling you what I know of 
his wicked courses. He trades upon your feeling for 
him ; he cares nothing for your love, and his only desire 
is to make money out of you.’ 

‘ Oh, Norman, this is terrible ! * she cried in tears. 

‘But it is true, my darling. Cast away this sentiment — 
this foolishness of your tender heart, and leave him to be 
dealt with by sterner methods. Your filial affection, my 
poor Clara, is nothing but a habit, an instinct which your 
father has fostered for his own ends. You have never 
known the love of a father in the true sense of the word. 
Your love is but a blind, inherited instinct, I repeat ; and 
I pray that you may not recognise it as such too late.’ 

‘ Oh, Norman, Norman, that is a hard doctrine ! ’ sobbed 
she. ‘ You do not know all it means for me, for I do 
love my father — as he once was and as he yet again may 
be. You are mistaken when you say — What noise 
is that ? ’ she cried hurriedly, starting to her feet. ‘ Oh, 
something has happened to my father ! It is a judgment 
on me ! ’ 

Norman opened the door in alarm, for the measured 
tread of men ascending the stair fell upon his ear. Clara 
resisted Norman’s well-meant attempt to place himself 
between her and the group of men who bore a silent 
burden in their midst. 

‘ My father, my father ! ’ she shrieked. ‘ Is he dead V 

* No, no, miss, he is not dead,’ said one of the men ; 
* but he has met with an accident. He fell down in 
front of a cab. — He was as drunk as a piper,’ whispered 
the man aside to Norman. 


6 7 


Love Lies Bleeding . 

‘ Oh, what shall I do ? * cried Clara, turning to her lover. 

‘ Be calm, dearest/ he whispered. ‘ The men shall 
carry him to his room, and I will go for a doctor. Would 
you like me to bring Katie Lawson to see after things ? * 

‘ I’ll do all that is necessary, sir/ said the woman who 
was in the habit of sharing Clara’s sick-room vigils. 

‘ Thank you. Let the men pass, Clara. Follow me/ 
said Norman to them, and he led the way, while Clara 
sank helplessly into a chair. 

She heard her father moan as the movement of the 
stretcher jarred upon his shattered frame, and the poor 
girl thought with a pang of bitter self-upbraiding that 
while she and her lover had been planning her 
father’s future, that father was being carried towards 
home maimed and bruised perhaps beyond chance of 
recovery. 

She was a girl of extraordinarily vivid and undisciplined 
impulses, and when Norman returned to her to let her 
know that the doctor had come and to break the sad 
tidings that he had pronounced the injuries to be danger- 
ous if not fatal, she turned upon him with unreasonable 
reproaches, and, seeing him stand looking bewildered at 
her, in a strong revulsion of feeling she cried out, — 

* I hate you ! I detest you ! Go away. You sought 
to alienate my love from my father, and now he will die 
and I shall see him no more ! It is like a judgment upon 
us. I retract my admission of love for you. I do not 
love you. I love my father and my art. You are a 
tempter ! Go out of my sight, for I cannot endure to look 
at you ! ’ 


68 Norman Reid \ M.A. 

* Clara, Clara ! you are beside yourself, my poor 
darling ! ’ 

* Go, I tell you — go!’ she repeated vehemently. ‘ Why 
will you force your attentions upon me ? I was trapped 
into yielding to you, and now I hate you/ 

Norman was stung to the quick. He lifted his hat 
and rose. 

* You shall taunt me no more/ he said sternly yet sadly. 

* I do not understand you, Clara. There is nothing for it 
but to say good-bye after all ! Oh, my darling, how you 
have wronged me ! I love you still, but never will I 
return to you until with your own lips you call me/ 

‘ What ! you taunt me ! You are indeed unmanly. It 
is true that I called you back once, but I will never be 
so weak again/ 

‘ So be it. I have only to remind you that if at any 
future time you should desire my help, — my friendly help, 
— ask it, I implore you. We can never be indifferent to 
each other, and my love for you is changeless — but you 
are free as air. Good-bye/ 

Once more the door closed behind him— once more she 
heard his footsteps descending the stair. Her face 
blanched, for at that moment when she had so flouted 
and 1 cast out love she discovered how strong were its 
bonds by the wrench with which they broke asunder. 
She stretched out imploring hands, but this time she kept 
an almost superhuman guard upon her lips, that would 
fain have braved shame once more for the blessed freedom 
of crying aloud for her lover to return. She stood dumb 
and motionless until the last echoes of his steps were 


69 


Love Lies Bleeding . 


lost among the hurrying feet of the crowds in the popu- 
lous street. Then — then indeed her heart sprang to her 
lips in an anguished cry which rang once more through 
the bare and cheerless studio — * Oh, Norman, Norman, 
come back ! 1 But he did not hear, for he was hastening 
homeward across the quiet and almost deserted Meadows ; 
and it was as well for both that the cry of anguish did 
not reach and recall him, because a union based on such 
weak self-surrender on Clara’s part would have been a 
source of unhappiness for both in the future. 




CHAPTER VII. 

ALONE ! 

This is truth the poet sings, 

That a sorrow’s crown of sorrow is remembering happier things. 

Tennyson. 

will pass lightly over the details of the 
momentous day of Norman’s ordination. 

Doubtless it was with a heart divided be- 
tween his private anxieties and his public 
responsibilities that he found himself, after the events of 
the previous night, standing next afternoon before the 
unknown congregation who had chosen him to be their 
teacher in spiritual things, and taking upon his untried 
shoulders the burden of those solemn obligations which 
seal the opening of every Presbyterian ministry. 

Who among my Scottish readers is not familiar with 
the austerely simple yet impressive routine of an ordina- 
tion service as it runs its course before the assembled 
Presbytery, the solitary candidate for the ministry, and 
the hushed gathering of observant people ? Not to 
mention the addresses from the pulpit to the new pastor 
and his people, who could behold unmoved the solemn 



Alone l 


7i 


and touching scene where the young minister, after taking 
upon him the vows of his calling, bows his head to receive 
the sacred ‘ laying-on of hands * by the Presbytery ? A 
touching scene indeed it is to witness the tottering steps 
of the older, white-haired members as they come forward 
to lay trembling, withered hands on the young head of 
their latest brother, who has thus publicly consecrated 
himself to the service of God. 

After the heartfelt benediction which concludes the 
service, there begins for the newly inducted minister the 
ordeal of standing in the — generally draughty — lobby of 
the church, while one by one the members of his congrega- 
tion file past and extend to him as they go a welcoming 
hand. For my part, I always pity the man who has to 
pass through such a tedious ordeal. He has doubtless 
been much moved by the solemn proceedings in the 
church and would fain turn aside and ponder over his 
ordination vows; but not yet has the longed-for oppor- 
tunity arrived. I wonder if, as the people filter past 
with outstretched hands, he ever finds himself trying to 
feel the congregational pulse in the lump, as it were, 
while shaking hands so decorously with the individuals ? 
I wonder if he recognises the worldly pride and gross 
Pharisaism of the bulk of the kid-gloved gentry who 
flaunt past ? or the timid welcome from the saints in 
much-mended black mittens ? or the manly Christianity 
of the bare and horny palm ? or the ostentatious gush of 
the sentimentalist whose feelings are continually oozing 
out in a disagreeable state of thaw from her daintily 
gloved finger-tips ? or the limp, disjointed hand-shake of 
7 


7 2 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


the man whose heart is a frozen well, and the handle of 
it consequently off the 'fang ? or the insidious, fishy touch 
of the sanctimonious hypocrite ? or the modestly fervid 
clasp of unpretentious Christians ? Enough ! my pen 
has run off with me, and I have left myself no space 
wherein to describe the dinner with its piquant sauce of 
clerical jokes, nor the soiree in the evening with its pre- 
sentations of cloak and Bible and its well-filled platform 
of elders, deacons, and, above all, representative young 
men, whose presence there declares to a guileless congre- 
gation that their choice is indeed not only a prince among 
preachers and pastors but all that could be desired as a 
‘guide, philosopher, and friend.’ We know them all too 
well, and tolerate them only for the sake of the ‘ eternal 
verities ’ which they symbolise. 

It was inevitable that Norman, as he sat in the midst 
of the gravely-rejoicing people in the evening, should turn 
his gaze inward and strive to imagine what Clara at that 
moment was doing. The present, with its lights and 
warmth and its social intercourse, looked shadowy and 
dreamlike ; — the past, with its love and sorrow, was a 
far more present reality to him. Surely never before did 
a young minister stand on the threshold of his arduous 
life with so few beloved and familiar faces to cheer him 
with answering glances. 

His mother, far away in sunny Mentone, was doubtless 
present in spirit with him that night ; but Clara — Clara, 
who ought to have been his most precious invisible earthly 
companion — was lost to him. She had tossed his love to 
and fro like a ball, only to fling it away at last ; and now 


Alone! 


73 

what thoughts were hers as she watched beside her 
father’s bed ? 

Norman roused himself with an effort from the con- 
templation of the picture of the beloved one that his fancy 
conjured up; and, as he gazed into ‘ the sea of upturned 
faces’ before him with a kind of hopeless wonder 
in his eyes, he became aware that Katie Lawson — 
faithful, homely Katie — was looking at him with a dis- 
tressed and anxious countenance. Hers was the one 
familiar face that linked together the past and the future ; 
but for her he felt that he was indeed alone in his new 
life, and he bent forward with an impulse of affection 
and smiled kindly into her rugged, honest face. But, 
although Norman did not know it, there was one fateful 
presence in the assembly destined to exercise a moment- 
ous influence upon his future. 

Clara was, as Norman divined, sitting that night 
beside her father’s sick-bed in distant Edinburgh ; but, 
— alas for the limitations of love’s intuitions ! Norman 
did not know how she had in imagination followed him 
through every hour of the ordination day. Her thoughts 
had been with him even as his with her, and yet neither 
felt that nearness of spirit which, had the issue of their 
love been happier, might have compensated them for the 
insurmountable barriers of material space. 

To her already well-nigh overwhelming burden was 
now added the grief of knowing that her father was 
dying, for the doctor had whispered to her at the door of 
the sick-chamber that morning his conviction that her 
father’s strength was insufficient to enable him to survive 


74 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


the shock his system had sustained, and that although he 
might linger for a few days, or even weeks, in a semi- 
conscious state, still she must prepare for the very 
worst. 

Yes, the shadow of death — that * shadow feared of 
man * — was in the sick-room, dignifying with its awful 
presence the wreck of humanity lying there with ques- 
tioning eyes that followed Clara’s movements as 
she approached the bed to arrange the pillows which 
supported his head. 

‘ Father dear,’ she said softly, ‘ can you hear me 
when I speak to you ? ’ He moved his head slightly. 

‘ Oh, father, you are dying. Let us pray together ! * 
she sobbed, as she knelt low and put her arms protectingly 
about the shattered figure. A frightened look came into 
his dull eyes as Clara, half-distracted with pity for him, 
poured out her soul to God in prayer and besought 
merciful pardon for the sinful man who had no words to 
plead for himself. She looked up at length, for a strange 
and inarticulate murmur proceeded from her father’s 
trembling mouth. She bent her head closer towards him 
to distinguish, if possible, the words, but she could not. 
She could only pray again, hoping that her father too 
was interceding before that Divine Presence whose perfect 
love can penetrate through all the stammering, imperfect 
speech of man, down into the buried soul that gropes for 
Him. 

Soon afterwards the dying man fell into a troubled 
doze, and Clara’s pla^e was taken by the friendly neigh- 
bour from down- stairs, who persuaded her to try to 


Alone l 


75 

obtain some sleep before she resumed her watch in the 
sick-room. 

Poor Clara ! It has been our lot to see her always in 
exceptionally trying circumstances, and the reader may 
wonder with some impatience if she could ever have been 
a smiling and rosy girl. Let us follow her as she 
entered the solitary studio that night. She walked up to 
a portrait hanging against the wall, and gazed long and 
wistfully at a radiant young girl-face there pictured. It 
was a portrait of herself, done by her father before his 
natural affection for her and his artistic admiration of 
her beauty had been killed by his passion for strong 
drink. How well she remembered the happy day when 
she had led Norman, playfully blindfolded by her loving 
hands, in front of the just- completed portrait ; — how well 
she remembered his sudden start and exclamation of 
delight as the smiling pictured face dawned upon him ; — 
and ah, how well she remembered the proud and loving 
words in which he told her that, lovely though the picture 
was, the original was fairer still — that the painted face 
was ‘ as moonlight unto sunlight * ! 

And now, alas ! it was the real face which was as 
moonlight unto the radiant sunlight that gleamed from 
the face on the wall ! She turned away with a sigh, for 
the retrospect was bitter. She pondered with awe over 
the swift coming of death, and tried to reconcile herself 
to the inevitable and to brace herself for a humiliation 
and a terror striding fast to confront her — the humiliation 
and the grim terror of absolute want. 

Clara’s purse, always a slender one, was now nearly 


76 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


empty, for her father’s illness culminating in the rash act 
which led to the fatal accident had almost drained it, and 
she was quite unprepared to meet the additional expenses 
that loomed before her. She was vexed with the stern 
necessity which compelled her to reflect that her father 
was the cause of all the humiliation which now threatened 
her, but the thought would not be banished, although 
pity cried aloud to remember that he was now lying on 
his death-bed. 

She looked round the studio in search of any stray 
sketch which might be converted into bread, only to dis- 
cover that her father had already disposed of every sale- 
able scrap. She was so weak, so solitary, so friendless, 
that if Norman’s mother had but been at hand, the whole 
pitiful tale might have been unfolded to her in spite of 
pride ; but that kind friend was far away, little dream- 
ing of the terrible strait to which Clara was now 
reduced. 

For to the lonely girl there had come one of those 
dark hours in the lot of humanity in which hope and 
self-deception and all the plausible shows which veil the 
realities of life are ruthlessly torn aside by the hand of 
fate, and the soul is left naked and alone to confront the 
storm and stress from which there is no escape. Such 
hours are supreme tests of character, for truth — and 
truth alone — can survive that pitiless buffeting upon the 
stormy ocean of life. 

Thus Clara, brought face to face- with her soul, realised 
as she had never done before for what paltry trappings 
of sheer vanity she had bartered that best gift of God — 


A lone ! 


77 


a tender human love. Ay, now she owned with bitter 
tears that she had indeed thrown away a priceless boon 
for the vain chance of possessing the glittering bauble 
which she called fame. Fame ! it was but a tear-drop 
holding in its minute cameo the rainbow of promise 
brought there by the sun of love. And now that cheering 
sun had gone down and the rainbow had disappeared, 
leaving all her little sky misty with blinding rain. 

Ah, she looked back through the blessed years in 
which Norman had loved her, owning now how much 
her inspiration had depended upon his presence ; and 
she cried aloud that she had been foolish and blind and 
selfish beyond all women in thus renouncing love. 

There was one way of escape for her, but it was a 
path of humiliation. Not yet could she bear the pain of 
treading it. If she could recall Norman, as he in his large- 
hearted and unconventional simplicity had invited her. to 
do, and confess to him all her folly, her despair, and her 
love, would not his arms open wide to shelter the shamed 
head on his breast ? She could not do it. She dared 
not further insult that noble, long-suffering affection by 
pleading to be restored to its shelter in order that she 
might escape — the pangs of hunger ! That was the root 
of her despair, she owned to herself with a bitter laugh of 
self-contempt. 

She must suffer and endure as long as she lived. But 
death would surely not long elude one who so longed for 
its coming. 

So she thought in her young and ignorant impatience, 
not knowing that by the noble fortitude and humility of 


78 Norman Reid , M.A. 

lifelong striving, the true Eest and Crown can alone be 
won. 

Next morning brought no relief from the feeling of 
depression ; but even while she was thus submerged 
beneath the waves and billows of sorrow, help was 
hastening towards her from an unknown and unsus- 
pected quarter. 




CHAPTER VIII. 

FIRST IMPRESSIONS. 

New airs begin to blow, 

And on the calm majestic tide 
Our full-sailed galleon comes to glide 
Love with its little skiff has gone, 

But life’s great bark sails on. L. Morris. 

the morning after his ordination, Norman 
might have been seen sauntering with observ- 
ant gaze through the streets of Otterton. 
While he was proceeding along Queen Street, 
the principal thoroughfare, he noticed the large and fault- 
lessly attired figure of Mr. Morgan emerging from the 
entrance to an ornate building, which was the National 
Bank. 

The sight of the ruling elder descending the steps of 
the building and crossing the street at an angle which 
would lead him straight to the railway station, suggested 
to Norman that he was going on a journey, and, as he 
had several questions to ask, he quickened his pace and 
overtook him just as he reached the covered way leading 
to the platform. 

‘ Good morning, Mr. Morgan/ said he, holding out his 



8o 


Norman Reid, M.A . 


hand to the other, who paused and returned the greeting 
with an ostentatious frankness of demeanour that seemed 
to be pleasingly conscious of onlookers and to challenge 
them to give his immaculate appearance and character 
the very closest scrutiny. 

* Ah, how are you after last night’s successful proceed- 
ings, Mr. Reid ? Are you making acquaintance with 
Otterton this fine morning ? It is a fine town, sir, — a 
fine town, if somewhat smoky.’ 

‘ Are you bent on a journey to-day ? * asked Norman. 

‘ Yes ; I am going as far as Edinburgh. I have just 
seen in this morning’s paper the account of an accident 
which I have reason to believe concerns a — a relative of 
mine. I return by to-morrow, however, for I would not 
on any account miss hearing you on Sabbath.’ 

Norman reddened. He found Mr. Morgan’s boisterous 
kindness somewhat overpowering, and, moreover, he was 
conscious of a slight but unmistakable feeling of antipathy 
towards him, why he could hardly tell. He waited until 
Mr. Morgan had procured his ticket, and then walked 
with him to the Glasgow platform. 

‘ Can I be of any service to you in Edinburgh ? ’ in- 
quired Mr. Morgan. * Can I carry a message to your 
mother, for instance ? I observed that your worthy 
housekeeper was the only occupant of the minister’s pew 
during yesterday’s services.’ This was said with some 
curiosity. * I think, Mr. Reid, I have heard you say that 
your mother is a widow ? ’ 

‘ Yes. Unfortunately she is too delicate to stand our 
climate in the winter and spring. I look forward 


First Impressions . 8 1 

having her here during the summer ; but at present she 
remains at Mentone. It was a great disappointment to 
us both that she was unable to be present last night/ 
replied Norman. 

‘ Doubtless/ rejoined his companion. ‘ Then there is 
nothing I can do for you ? That train is late as usual ! ’ 
he exclaimed, taking out his watch and comparing it with 
the station clock. 

‘ I thought of asking you a question or two about my 
work/ replied Norman ; ‘ but I can wait. I shall call 
upon you next week.’ 

* Ah, that will do very well, my dear sir/ said Mr. 
Morgan with a perceptible increase of warmth. ‘ I expect 
that we shall see « great deal of each other, and you could 
not come to a better quarter for any information about 
the affairs of Free St. John’s. I flatter myself — nay, I 
humbly trust — that I have done not a little for the good 
of the community, and that in the teeth of much opposi- 
tion too. I am sure that we shall get on together/ he 
repeated, looking kindly into Norman’s somewhat un- 
responsive face. * Your face reminds me of some one — 
of whom I cannot at this moment recollect. Ah, there 
comes the train at last. Good-day, Mr. Reid ; it won’t 
be my fault if we don’t get on better together than your 
predecessor and I did,’ he cried, leaving Norman with 
the uncomfortable suspicion that somehow or other a 
warning seemed to lie in his last words. 

But it was a lovely day in early spring — full of that 
silent promise and intangible gladness so irresistibly sug- 
gestive of the sweetness of life when one is young with 


82 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


the year, and Norman’s pulses bounded pleasantly in 
spite of his vague disquietude of spirit as he wended his 
way out of the crowded station and through the principal 
thoroughfares of the town. 

But with these our story has nothing to do. We 
will follow Norman to the humble locality called the 
Waterside, a long and insanitary line of workmen’s 
houses standing on the south bank of the Otter and 
connected by several wooden bridges with a similar row 
on the other side, which for the sake of distinction was 
called North Waterside. 

There were of course ‘ lands ’ of respectable houses 
scattered among the ruder dwellings, but on the whole the 
Waterside had a squalid and poverty-stricken appearance, 
and it teemed with pallid inhabitants who felt the return 
of spring — -not in the glad uprisal of joy that in more 
favoured quarters was even now greeting the renewal of 
the young green leaves, but chiefly in the sense of a 
welcome freedom from the nipping cold of the winter, to 
which their ill-clad, ill-nourished frames rendered them 
peculiarly susceptible, and perhaps in a faint stirring 
of deep-buried hope, that immortal deception which, in 
spite of the testimony of the ages to the tantalising and 
delusive nature of its promises, still dupes down-trodden 
humanity. 

Norman sauntered slowly westward along the Water- 
side, receiving here and there a greeting from a humble 
member of his as yet unknown congregation ; and gradu- 
ally he began to feel oppressed at the near sight of such 
abundant misery and prevailing squalor. 


First Impressions. 83 

In truth, he was feeling as he had never felt before the 
responsibilities and burdens of his divine calling pressing 
upon his spirit, already laden with a purely personal sorrow 
on his own and Clara’s account. 

Many a shrewd glance followed the new minister of 
Free St. John’s. Groups of old men, too feeble to work, 
were clustered around the low stone parapets of the 
bridges, and they also followed the stalwart figure with 
the slow gaze of age. 

The foundries were clanging busily, and the droning 
whirr of machinery made itself heard through the open 
windows of the factories, and the streets were filled with 
the babble of the voices of children, who swarmed on the 
sunny pavement noisily merry with their games, while 
tiny little ones sat on the knees of the patriarchs who 
occupied the stone benches by the doors ; and infancy 
and eld alike looked at the stranger with very much the 
same grave, wondering expression in their eyes. 

Other old people crept along the sunny side of the 
street, — the mere shadows of human beings, — and a few 
invalids watched from sheltered corners the young 
minister who was so ready to smile and talk with them 
all, careless, apparently, of denominational differences. 
Norman, indeed, was mindful only of their common 
humanity and its claims upon his compassion, and it spoke 
volumes for the genuineness of his personality that the 
many hard-wrought, embittered people with whom he 
talked that day did not resent his numerous and pointed 
questions. They felt drawn to confide in the young 
minister, for, though he plainly lacked the experience 


8 4 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


which nothing but age can bring, he possessed the God* 
given magnet of keen spiritual intuitive sympathy. 

It was divined that day by many poor souls grown 
callous of their own misery, and, in most cases, long ac- 
customed to the frigid ministrations of careless pastors, 
that here stood one who looked into their eyes with the 
observant and kindly gaze of a brother. Many were the 
friendships unconsciously inaugurated that day — friend- 
ships that were destined to last through 'weal and woe 
during all the vicissitudes of Norman Eeid’s after career. 

I do not know if this instinctive desire of his to get 
behind conventionalities; and to look into the saving 
mystery of pain, was of any other practical benefit to him 
than that it put him into a position for realising very 
vividly the vicarious sufferings of Him who bore the sins 
of the world. 

Norman could never rest content with the outward 
semblance of things ; all his life long he strove to pierce 
the veil of reserve that shrouds the true nature of even 
the commonest and most unattractive of God’s creatures. 

He pursued his walk towards the Manse past the 
various works and the adjoining residences of the owners, 
mostly old-fashioned and substantial ‘ harled ’ houses, nest- 
ling amid their spring luxuriance of graceful Irees. He 
passed the foundry of Morgan & Co., and the modern 
villa of his wealthy ruling elder farther down the river. 
It was a very fine mansion indeed, and was surrounded 
by a large and pleasant garden shady with budding 
beeches, through the boughs of which silvery glimpses 
could be obtained of the swiftly -flowing Otter. 


First Impressions . 


85 


An ornamental bridge of iron spanned the river oppo- 
site Mr. Morgan’s gates, and Norman crossed it and walked 
a few yards up the river, to where his own pretty manse 
stood gleaming whitely through the misty boughs of the 
garden trees. 

He opened the gate and stood for a moment looking 
eastward along the Otter to the Waterside, whence his 
eye travelled through the smoke of the town to the glit- 
tering spire of Free St. John’s Church. 

As the young minister gazed with his thoughts full of 
the manifold needs of the human beings near his door, 
he became endued with an enthusiastic and holy zeal to 
work in this vineyard of the Lord. He bowed his head 
upon the bars of the gate in an overwhelming impulse of 
pity for his brother men, — the toilers and the sufferers of 
the earth, — and with a prayer whose only outward sign 
was a sob he asked God’s help in his work. 

* Ah, poor humanity ! ’ said he as he walked along the 
garden path. ‘Ah, poor humanity, that requires to be 
scourged heavenward ! Help me, 0 God, to do Thy 
work faithfully here, for it needs the pity and the patience 
of Thy dear Son to gaze with any hope at all on the 
sinning, groping, suffering children of earth.’ 

Such was his prayer on the threshold of his ministry, 
and his personal sorrow was forgotten as he went into 
his study and shut the door. 




CHAPTER IX, 

THE RULING ELDER IN A NEW LIGHT. 

A friend in need 

Is a friend indeed ! Old Proverb. 

N the same afternoon, while Clara was at her 
post in the sick-chamber, a quick ring at the 
door-bell startled her from her sad brooding. 
She stole on tiptoe across the floor, shut- 
ting the door softly behind her lest any chance sound 
should reach her father’s ears ; and, having walked down- 
stairs, she opened the outer door and found herself con- 
fronted by the tall figure and inquiring countenance of a 
total stranger. 

She looked at the gentleman somewhat nervously, 

wondering if he had some claim upon her unhappy 

father; and Mr. Morgan — for it was he — on his side 

found himself unwontedly excited, and even awkward, 

as this pale-faced, brown-eyed maiden scrutinised him so 

closely. * 

‘ I must apologise for disturbing you so unexpectedly,’ 

he stammered, his usual bland ease all gone ; ‘ but I saw 

an account of an acdident to Mr. Allan Porteous in the 
86 



The Ruling Elder in a New Light. 87 

morning paper, and I thought that he perhaps might be 
a relative of mine/ He paused with a keen look into 
Clara’s surprised face. 

‘ Yes ? ’ said, she interrogatively. 

* Did you ever hear Mr. Porteous speak of his wife’s 
brother — Stephen Morgan ? ’ said he. ‘ I think that you 
are my sister’s daughter. I am Stephen Morgan.’ 

He spoke with some agitation of manner ; but at his 
words Clara started and drew her slight figure proudly up, 
saying, * My mother always mentioned your name with 
wonder and grief at your strange and unwarrantable 
silence.’ 

* Ah, my dear, your face reminds me of my boyhood. 
You have your mother’s eyes,’ was the irrelevant answer. 
‘ But I don’t understand why you call my silence un- 
warrantable. My sister never communicated her where- 
abouts to me. I was abroad when she — married Mr. 
Porteous, and when I returned home ten years ago, I 
sought for tidings of her — only to discover that she was 
dead. I did not even know that she had left a 
daughter, and it was your father’s somewhat un- 
common name and also his profession that suggested to 
me that he might be my dear sister’s husband. You are 
very like my poor Lizzie. We were fond of each other 
in the old days.’ 

‘ But you left her letters unanswered, although she 
wrote repeatedly pleading for a kind word from you,’ 
said Clara reproachfully. She could not take this new 
relationship into her heart unquestioningly. 

Her uncle started and flushed. 

8 


88 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


‘ I never received her letters. I hear of them now for 
the first time. I was abroad at the time of your mother’s 
marriage, as I have already said, and moving about 
from place to place. But my mother always had my 
address, and my letters were re-directed to me by her. 
She sent all my correspondence to me from home. This 
is her doing ; she must have kept' back my sister’s letters ! 
She was indeed a cruel and a hard mother ! ’ he cried, 
discharging the words at Clara as if they had been pellets. 
‘ Yes, she was a hard woman and resented Lizzie’s elope- 
ment until the day of her death/ 

* Come in/ said Clara in a softer tone. * My mother 
often spoke of you. Ah, what a pity it is that you have 
found us too late ! ’ It never occurred to her to think of 
any benefit to herself arising out of this unexpected appear- 
ance of her uncle. She led him into the studio, which 
looked very dusty and forlorn, and placed a chair for him 
near the window. He sat down mechanically, mopping 
the sweat from his brow, and for a few minutes there was 
silence between them. 

‘ Can I be of any use to you ? Is your father * — 
Mr. Morgan paused, uncertain how to proceed. 

‘ He is dying/ said Clara in a dull tone, with her eyes 
fixed on the floor. 

‘ Oh, my dear, I am very sorry ! Is it so serious as 
that ? I hope ’ — Again the usually fluent Mr. Morgan 
found himself at a loss for words as he gazed upon the 
sad young face before him, so eloquent of sorrow and 
self-restraint. But Clara’s tears were all wept, and she 
sat quietly near him, replying to his questions in a low 


The Ruling Elder in a New Light. 89 

voice that awoke in her uncle’s heart many reminiscences 
of his long-lost sister. 

4 Tell me, my dear — is your name Lizzie ? ’ said he. 

‘ No — Clara/ 

4 Ah, my mother’s name ! May you have a softer 
nature than she had ! Take care how you treat any one 
who loves you, my dear. Do not be hard or unforgiv- 
ing ! My mother caused much misery/ 

Clara’s thoughts flew to Norman. How had she dealt 
with that tender heart ? Was it possible that she could 
be as unforgiving as this other Clara whose conduct she 
had so often judged ? Ah, no, no ! If Norman would 
but come back to her, how loving, how tender she would 
be ! 

4 Do you think that your father will be able to see me ? ' 
said her uncle, breaking in upon her reverie. 4 I should 
like to return to Otterton by the evening train/ 

4 To Otterton ! ’ exclaimed Clara faintly, holding the arm 
of her chair with a sudden sensation of falling. 

* Yes,’ he replied in some surprise. ‘ I still live on in 
the old house/ 

* I did not know that my mother lived there. She 
never mentioned the name of the town to me. Is it 
Otterton near the West Coast ? * said Clara. 

‘Yes. I am surprised to find that you did not know. 
I must, if possible, return to-night, but I will come back 
on Monday/ 

‘ I shall see how my father is/ said Clara ; but she 
trembled visibly as she turned to go, and her uncle came 
towards her hastily. 


9 o 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


1 Sit down again for a little, my dear/ he exclaimed. 

‘ Surely you are feeling ill ? * 

‘ Oh no ! I will see if my father is awake/ 

Clara went slowly and painfully up-stairs. Her head 
was in a whirl. ‘ Otterton ! he lives at Otterton ! * she 
whispered to herself. ‘And Norman is there ! * 

She entered her father’s chamber. He was awake and 
conscious for the time being, as she observed. 

‘ Father/ she said gently, ‘ do you think that you 
would be able to see a friend ? * 

The father and daughter had come much nearer to 
each other in heart during those days of sorrow. 

‘ A friend ! ’ he echoed faintly. ‘ I did not know that 
I had such a thing in the world except yourself, my 
poor little girl/ He put up his hand feebly and drew 
her down until her young cheek rested on his. These 
moments of affection were very precious to Clara, and 
she pressed her cheek closer and kissed him. 

‘ But this is really a friend — a relative ; he is mamma’s 
brother Stephen/ 

‘ What ? Mr. Stephen Morgan from Otterton ! What 
does he want here ? ’ cried the sick man feverishly. ‘Has 
he come to upbraid me about Lizzie ? * 

‘ No, no/ Clara hastened to say. ‘ But why did 
you never tell me that mamma’s friends lived at 
Otterton ? ’ 

‘ I wasn’t so very proud of them ! ’ said he with some 
bitterness. ‘ None of the family recognised our marriage. 
I never saw this Mr. Stephen Morgan. They treated my 
Lizzie vilely, but it was all my fault. Poor Lizzie — poor 


The Riding Elder in a New Light. 91 

little wife ! I begin to see how I must have ruined her life. 
I am a poor miserable man.’ 

He lifted his hand to his head vaguely, and Clara, 
knowing that this was an indication of returning un- 
consciousness, soothed him with gentle words and bathed 
his forehead with a refreshing lotion. 

* Don’t think any more about the past, father dear ; 
only tell me whether I shall bring Mr. Morgan up-stairs. 
He is very kind, I am certain.’ 

* Kind, is he ? Perhaps he is good for some money. 
We need it sorely, eh ? ’ said he with a fitful return of 
his old sordid nature. 

Clara shrank a little and pressed her pale lips more 
firmly together, but she made no indignant remonstrance, 
as she once would have done. The iron had entered too 
deeply into her soul. 

f Bring him up,’ continued her father. 4 He cannot 
think worse of me than I do of myself.’ 

When Mr. Morgan found himself standing by the bed- 
side of his dead sister’s husband, he could scarcely repress 
his surprise and disgust at the sight of the moral and 
physical wreck lying on the pillows. He wondered inly 
at his sister’s infatuation, asking himself what she could 
possibly have seen to attract her pure and simple heart 
to this man. 

But years spent in evil bring their inflexible revenges, 
and the superficial charm which had so captivated the 
inexperienced Lizzie Morgan — the handsome, reckless 
physique, the dashing manners, the tender devotion of the 
drawing-master who had won her heart at the boarding- 


92 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


school on the Clyde, had been lost long, long ago in 
this degraded semblance of a man. Ah, when we are on 
the brink of any enticing evil, let ns pause and consider. 
Would we wish our children, our ‘dearest, our God, to 
condemn us as the years sweep on ? Shall we stamp our 
faces with God’s seal or the devil’s ? Let us ‘ work out 
our own salvation with fear and trembling/ for time must 
either exalt our mobile human character or degrade it 
irredeemably. 

Clara was watching her uncle, and she saw the move- 
ment of repulsion with which he greeted her father — and 
resented it keenly. She addressed him with a touch of 
asperity. 

‘ My father has suffered much and he is very weak ; 
so, if you have anything to say to him, say it quickly, 
before he relapses into unconsciousness. The doctor will 
be here shortly.’ 

4 Can I do anything for you, Mr. Borteous ? ’ inquired 
Mr. Morgan. ‘ I have explained the object of my visit 
to your daughter, and I will not tire you by repeating my 
explanations. I am here to be of service to you for my 
sister’s sake.’ 

‘ You can do nothing for me except give me a decent 
burial/ rejoined the sick man with uneasy levity. ‘ When 
one comes to the end of one’s tether in this fashion, there’s 
no more to be done. But the past has an evil way of 
casting up misdeeds upon the shores of ebbing time, and 
I would like to take advantage of that while I am in the 
mood. I acknowledge that I have been a bad husband 
to your sister, and a bad father to’ — 


The Ruling Elder in a New Light. 93 

‘ Father, father \ ’ interrupted Clara in anguish ; ‘never 
mind the past.’ 

He took her hand and stroked it weakly. 

‘ My little girl loves her bad father, you see,’ he said, 
turning to Mr. Morgan with a wistful smile. ‘ Neverthe- 
less, I have behaved cruelly to her, and ’ — 

Again Clara interrupted him. ‘ That is past ; it is all 
forgotten. Oh, father, do not revive it ! ’ 

‘ “Coals of fire” — “coals of fire,” my darling ! ’ said her 
father, as she put her arms around him. ‘ I am glad for 
her sake that you have come,’ he said, turning to Mr. 
Morgan and pointing to Clara. 

* You may trust me to provide for her. I have neither 
kith nor kin except her remaining,’ said Mr. Morgan with 
emotion. ‘ But do not let thoughts of earthly things any 
longer distract your attention from your solemn condition.’ 

The sick man again lifted his hand nervously to his 
head. ‘ Clara, where are you ? ’ he said ; and she drew 
near and touched his lips with a stimulant. He rallied 
slightly. 

‘You can pray for me,’ he said in answer to Mr. Morgan’s 
last words. ‘ You can pray for me if you think it is — 
not mean to slink into heaven — in this way ; ’ and there- 
upon he relapsed into unconsciousness, while Clara sat 
helplessly by his side with tearless eyes. 

‘ Have you no one to help you, my dear? — no nurse?’ 
said her uncle compassionately. ‘You are quite worn out.’ 

‘ The doctor advised me to let my father he taken to 
the Infirmary, but I preferred to nurse him myself,’ said 
she simply. 


94 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


* Ah ! ’ said her uncle, a light breaking in upon him 
suddenly as he glanced round the poverty-stricken apart- 
ment. Were they in poverty then ? — perhaps in actual 
want ? The thought stung him to the quick and he 
rose abruptly. 

‘ I said that I intended to return home this evening/ 
he said huskily ; * but my place is with you, my poor 
child. I will go and procure a nurse ; and afterwards 
you shall rest. Oh, my dear, if I had but known 
sooner!’ He kissed her and hurried away. 

That night Allan Porteous died. 




CHAPTEE X. 

WITH THE STREAM. 

I find no spring while spring is well-nigh blown; 

I find no nest while nests are in the grove ; 

Woe’s me for mine own heart that dwells alone — 

My heart that breaketh for a little love I 

Christina Rossetti, 

N the Monday after Norman’s first Sabbath at 
Otter ton, while he sat at breakfast, Katie 
entered the room with the morning paper in 
her hand, and that look of alert importance 
usually displayed by the bearers of ill-news. 

4 1 see the name of Allan Porteous, drawing-master, 
among the deaths the day. I wish I could have found 
time to gang and see that puir lassie/ she said. 

‘ Then the accident has proved fatal ! What will Clara 
do ? ’ exclaimed Norman. 

Katie knew of his engagement. She gave him the 
paper, and as he silently conned the announcement, — 
* At Lauriston Place, on the 12th instant, Allan Porteous, 
drawing-master. Euneral on Tuesday at two o’clock p.m./ 
— she proceeded to interrogate Norman in her usual 
practical manner. 



96 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


‘ You’ll be gaun to the funeral ? I’m sure he must be 
a guid riddance to puir Miss Clara. She hasna had the 
life o’ a dog with him. Hooever, it’s an ill wind that 
blaws naebody guid, and you’ll be’bringin’ her hame to 
her ain some fine day. You’ll be gaun to the funeral, I’m 
sayin’ ? ’ she repeated, for Norman seemed lost in thought. 

‘ Yes, yes, of course,’ he replied abstractedly as he rose 
and went into his study. He wanted to be alone to think 
the matter over. How could he acquaint Clara with his 
sympathy for her without widening the breach already 
yawning between them ? That was the problem that 
occupied his thoughts. It was not likely, he knew, that 
he would see her on the morrow, for he felt that she 
would be as reserved in her grief as in any other 
emotion. He pictured her alone and sorrowful, with- 
out, as far as he was aware, a single living relative to 
share her vigil of grief or to follow her father to the 
grave, and at length he obeyed his heart’s impulse and 
wrote her a letter offering his aid in ' her trying cir- 
cumstances, expressing his condolence, and beseeching 
her to let him be to her as a brother ; and the letter 
— incomplete and coldly precise as all letters written 
under the stress of curbed emotions are sure to be — 
reached Clara in due course, awaking in her sad heart a 
passion of longing and regret for him who asked but to 
be a brother now. She read the letter again and again. 
Ah, how could he write thus coldly and conventionally 
after all that had been between them ? Was it possible 
that the love she had dallied with so remorselessly was 
now no longer hers ? She wept, and cried in a passion 


With the Stream / 


97 


of regret, ‘ Oh, return to me, beloved ! When your love 
forsook me, hope and inspiration fled. Everything has 
fallen from me. I am desolate. Without you, oh, my best 
and dearest, I cannot live ! * But there was no magical 
bird with silver wings of peace to fly to Norman and sing 
the sweet tidings that would have brought him to her feet. 

Tuesday morning came and brought to Norman an 
urgent summons to attend the death-bed of a member of 
his congregation, residing at the home farm of an estate 
lying half a day’s journey from Otterton. There was no 
alternative. He must put all other claims aside when 
imperative duty called, and thus it came about that 
Norman was not present at the funeral of Allan Porteous. 

After her father was laid in the grave Clara had some 
conversation with her uncle regarding her future. He 
had not anticipated any difficulty in getting her to return 
with him to Otterton, and he was disagreeably astonished 
to find that her will was as strong as his own when he 
argued the matter with her. She ventured to tell him 
that she would fain devote herself to art, and she showed 
him her pictures and sketches with a belief in his 
sympathy in her project that made him feel ill at ease. 
It was a project which in the eyes of the substantial man 
of business seemed simply madness ; nevertheless, he had 
much respect for this pale and self-possessed maiden 
whose brave endurance and dignified reticence he had had 
ample opportunities of observing ; and he listened gravely 
to all she had got to say. He knew nothing about art, 
and he was unable to comprehend how any one — especially 
any woman — would elect to remain in the — to him — 


Norman Reid , M.A, 


98 

shady precincts of Bohemia, when a position of respecta- 
bility and importance was within reach. He would 
have placed his niece over his own household and given 
her the ease and position of a lady. 

‘ I)o you mean to tell me that you prefer this life of 
privation ? It is a curious fancy, Clara/ he said in a 
puzzled tone. 

4 You must not think it a mere fancy, uncle. It has 
long been the chief purpose of my life. I have been 
educated for it — and I have made sacrifices for it/ she 
added quietly. 

‘ But you cannot go on living here alone, my dear/ he 
remonstrated. ‘ It is not — the thing for any young girl.’ 

* Many girls do it. I could tell you of dozens, and 
they are ladies — every one ! * said Clara proudly. 

‘ But in this case there is no necessity that you should 
do it. I have no one to keep house for me. Come home 
with me, my dear.’ 

Clara shook her head. 

* I cannot. Do not insist on it, uncle/ she said ; and 
he, being unaware of another hidden motive which swayed 
her decision, looked with some displeasure into her 
excited face. 

‘ Certainly I won’t urge you to come against your will/ 
he replied stiffly. ‘ But I cannot believe that you realise 
your circumstances. Let me put the matter practically 
before you. I offer you a home with every refinement 
and comfort suitable to your position as my niece ; and 
you reject it for this hap-hazard existence and the far-off 
prospect of making a competence by art. If you will 


With the Stream l 99 

live alone, why not follow some more remunerative 
pursuit ? * 

She winced and reddened with pride. 

‘ But you do not understand ! ’ she cried. ‘ If I succeed 
in art * — But here she paused with a deeper blush still. 
She could not divulge her dream of fame to this clear- 
headed, matter-of-fact uncle. So she left her sentence 
unfinished, saying sadly, ‘ I only know that to succeed in 
art I must let all else go. I am very grateful to you, 
dear uncle, for your generous offer.’ 

It was a new and sweet sensation for Mr. Morgan to 
be called ‘dear uncle’ by such a very uncommon and 
altogether presentable niece. What an attraction she 
would lend to his home ! He would try once more to 
convince her that that home was the proper place for 
her. He renewed the attack. 

* But you can go on painting, if that is what you mean, 
in my house at Otterton. I have often seen artists hang- 
ing about the banks of the water.’ Clara half smiled, for 
her uncle spoke as if those artists had been some eccentric 
species of spider who probably hung their webs by running 
streams ; but Mr. Morgan thought her smile propitious, 
and he hastened to pursue his advantage. 

‘ I really do not think that you have any adequate 
reasons for refusing the shelter of my roof. You are all 
alone, and you are — poor.’ But he saw by Clara’s flashing 
eye that he had overshot his mark. 

‘ Therefore I will not live on charity ! ’ she said. ‘ I 
will work for myself ! ’ 

* My dear, my dear, do not be so hasty ! ’ he cried, 


IOO 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


grieved at the result of his blunder and very much 
startled to discern such an amount of fiery energy in 
Clara’s large brown eyes. She stood coldly aloof, for 
she had started from her chair and was lightly leaning 
against the table with its litter of sketches. But there 
was something in the expression of her face which he 
could not altogether understand. Was it a subtle shade 
of irresolution after all ? 

In truth, temptation had once more assailed Clara ; 
for the life that her uncle now offered her was full of 
attractions for one of her dainty and luxurious nature ; 
and, moreover, she was not without that touch of super- 
stition common to those of imaginative temperament, and 
she found herself suddenly beset by the conviction that 
fate was bent on driving her once more across her lover’s 
path. She was ill in body too, and very, very weary of 
striving against the stream of circumstances. 

‘ I must return to Otter ton to-night, Clara,’ said her 
uncle ; * and we must not part in displeasure. I would 
like to make some arrangements for your comfort if you 
intend to remain here. I am rich, and there is nobody 
belonging to me that I know of but you. You must 
allow me to give you something out of my abundance. 
I would wish to make your life a little easier for you* 
I know nothing about art, but I do know that it is a 
difficult thing for people to make money by it, and, 
although I have no doubt that you will get on in your 
profession, I cannot understand why you cannot pursue 
it at Otterton. I would like to be kind to you.’ 

Clara took his hand and raised it to her lips some- 


With the Stream ! 


IOI 


what wildly. ‘ Ah, if you knew ! — if you only knew ! * 
she exclaimed, bursting into tears. 

‘ There, there, my dear ! * cried her uncle in alarm. ‘ I 
will let you have your own way. But you must take 
this little gift from me to keep my mind at ease about 
you in the meantime.’ He held a purse half deprecat- 
ingly towards her. It was a new sensation for him to 
find himself actually afraid of offering money, for as a 
rule he flung his charity at servile and grateful recipients 
from a height of condescension. 

* I will take it, uncle, on condition that you will allow 
me to pay every penny of it back,’ said Clara, holding 
out her hand with a burning blush. 

* Tut, tut, tut ! Cannot you receive it in the same 
spirit in which it is given ? Dry your eyes, my dear, 
and cheer up. I will come again and see how this 
extraordinary experiment of yours is working. You are 
a strange girl ! ’ 

And so Mr. Morgan returned to Otterton, leaving Clara 
face to face with her future. 

There was nothing now to hinder her from setting to 
work, and by-and-bye achieving her cherished dream. 
Ah, but she had not calculated on the loneliness, the 
vacuum in her life, the overwhelming physical depression 
that haunted her day by day through all the dismal weeks 
that followed her father’s death. 

The spring weather had become inclement. Day after 
day she rose listlessly and drew up the blinds of her 
chamber window only to find the panes blurred with 
streaming rain, while the east wind howled in the chimney 


102 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


and dashed the rain in a grey mist down the dreary 
street, driving before it the shivering passengers who 
trudged despondently through the slush in an endless 
stream. All through the dreary days the influence of 
the east wind and the misty rain was upon her. She sat 
shivering and miserable before the fire that hissed as the 
rain-drops descended the chimney, without an impulse to 
work. Her canvases stood with their faces to the wall, 
the colours dried upon her disused palette, she was struck 
with a paralysis of loneliness against which she was im- 
potent to strive ; and still the rain went slanting past on 
the shrieking wind, and the whole outer world was form- 
less, rain-swept, and grey. She felt shut in from her 
kind. Self-exiled, resourceless, a prey to memories that 
well-nigh maddened her, she lived she knew not how, at 
the mercy of the demon of despondency that for ever 
dinned into her ears the one word — failure, failure ! 

The mainspring of her life — which was love, if she 
had but known it — snapped at last, unable to bear the 
strain of those lonely days, and with its destruction fled 
all that made life worth living — that bright resoluteness, 
that proud belief in her talent which had carried her 
triumphantly through all the discouragements of the 
past. 

All failed her now, and at length, in dire humiliation 
and sickness of body and mind, she one rainy night took 
pen in hand and wrote to her uncle an urgent letter, so 
full of half-incoherent sorrow and despair that he obeyed 
it instantly, nor rested until he had taken the poor op- 
pressed girl back with him to Otterton. 



CHAPTER XL 

'JIM THE SOCIALIST.’ 

It’s hardly in a body’s pow’r 
To keep, at times, frae being sour, 

To see how things are shared. Burns. 

was Norman's custom to walk through the 
busy streets of Otterton on Saturday after- 
noons and evenings with the object of obtain- 
ing some vivid views of the manner in which 
the working classes spent their hours of freedom and 
leisure on that day. 

This habit of the young minister had given rise to a 
good deal of shocked and wondering comment among 
those who looked upon Saturday as a plebeian sort of 
day when the streets were given over to the * common 
people/ and who, moreover, held the traditional view 
that the whole of Saturday ought to be observed as a 
hallowed time for ministerial study. But Norman, 
having the courage of his opinions, ignored the more 
or less open hints which some of those * respectable * 
busy-bodies thought it their duty to give him, and 
regularly pursued the ‘ even tenor of his way * through 

103 



104 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


the weekly Saturnalia of the Waterside and other similar 
streets ; and it is needless to say that his Sabbath dis- 
courses were thus endowed with a fuller measure of 
spiritual and practical insight and sympathy than could 
be obtained by any minister who shut his eyes to the 
world of every-day and contented himself with a diligent 
but mole-like burrowing into the minds of dead and 
gone divines. 

One Saturday evening, therefore, about six weeks after 
his settlement in Otterton, Norman set out from the 
Manse on his usual round, and as he was walking past 
the Otterbank Foundry his attention was arrested by the 
sight of a small crowd of workmen clustered about the 
closed gates, listening with rapt attention to a young 
man who stood in their midst haranguing. ‘ Ah,’ thought 
Norman , 4 a stump orator holding forth ! I wonder what’s 
his subject ? ’ He pressed forward, and by reason of his 
commanding stature was enabled to see the face of the 
lecturer, who was winding up an address, evidently on 
Socialism, with a peroration so flowery in language and 
so exaggerated in its statements of the blessings of the 
social millennium whose advent the speaker was pre- 
dicting, that the conclusion was lost in a burst of mocking 
laughter and applause, which effectually broke the spell 
that had hitherto bound the crowd and prepared the way 
for the * heckling ’ in which the soul of the working man 
delights. 

Norman, in a characteristically unconventional manner, 
paused on the outskirts of the crowd to hear what was 
going on. 


i Jim the Socialist ! 105 

* A fine face ! * said he under his breath as he looked 
at the flushed and boyish countenance of the orator ; ‘ a 
very fine face for a working lad; but he’s a regular 
firebrand, or I am much mistaken.’ 

* Ye hae made a fine speech, Jim Borland, but we’ll 
a’ be dead and forgotten ere sic grand doings come aboot,’ 
cried one of the men. * You that kens so much, see if ye 
hinna a plan that’ll better things for us.* 

‘Well, you might help to better yourselves by joining 
the Trades’ Unions, which aim at reducing the employer’s 
profits by giving the workmen a share of them in the 
shape of increased wages. At the same time, you should 
try to advance Socialism by putting men into Parliament 
— now that you have the ball at your feet — who would 
carry the measures necessary to bring ^bout the change. 
Why, then you would all have an equal share of the 
profits, according to your ability and industry. Equality ! 
Equality is what ’ — 

‘ Ca’ canny, Jim ! Ye ken verra weel that Morgan wad 
gie us a’ the bag if we turned Union men. It’s easy enough 
for a young fellow like you to rant aboot Trades’ Unions, 
but we hae wives and weans to think o7 

‘ Ye hae him there, Hughie Drennan ! * cried another 
voice from the crowd. ‘It’s all in my eye, Jim. I 
wonder to hear ye speak sic Yankee bounce — for, of 
course, ye hae brocht it alang wi’ your high-falutin’ 
English twang frae America. Bide at hame, Jim, and 
get a wife to clip your wings ! ’ 

Jim flushed to the roots of his auburn hair. 

‘A fine specimen of the working man you are, Eab 


106 Norman Reid ’ M.A 

Bey burn ! * retorted he angrily amid the laughter of 
the crowd. ‘You’re the sort of man that lets his 
wife and wee weans hang round the public-house door 
to catch the leavings of his wages before they get into 
the gill-stoup ! * He turned impetuously towards the 
laughing crowd — ‘You are a poor-spirited lot on this 
side of the Atlantic if the like of Bab Beyburn is to 
be your spokesman ! I don’t believe that you are really 
content to work like slaves for a pittance and pile up 
riches for such men as Morgan ! * Jim struck his 
hardened hand against the clanging gates of the foundry 
as he spoke. ‘ Don’t you see that if it was not for the 
greed and monopoly of capitalists you would all have 
abundance ! ’ 

‘Weel, but, Jim, there’s nae particular faut to be 
found wi’ Morgan. It’s true we hinna verra big 
wages, but we’ve constant wark ; and a wheen o’ us 
hae been wi’ him a’ oor days. I’m sure, what wi’ a’ 
the grand patents he has the workin’ o’ an’ the orders 
that are aye cornin’ in frae foreign countries, we hae 
hardly kent what it is to hae a day’s idle-set for I dinna 
ken hoo mony years. Na, na, Jim ; we’ll let the 
Unions alane an* stick by Morgan as lang as he’ll stick 
by us.’ 

Norman looked round — but in vain — for a loophole 
of escape from the crowd which had gradually wedged 
him round, for he was becoming rather restive in his 
novel position, although so engrossed were the men that 
they had failed, as yet, to notice the stranger in their 
midst. 


io7 


* Jim the Socialist * 

‘Jim Borland/ cried a sarcastic voice, unconsciously 
quoting Hamlet, ‘ ye seem to think ye were born to set 
the warl* richt ! We a* ken ye — we ken your father 
and mother. Honest folk ! it wasna frae them ye gat 
sic notions ! ’ 

‘ I say, Jim, what aboot this grand machine o’ yours 
that we hae heard is to tak’ the bread oot o’ your 
neighbours* mouths? Whaur’s your “equality” noo, 
lad?* 

‘ Ay, whaur’s your equality noo ? I like mixed prin- 
ciples just as ill as I like water among my whisky/ cried 
Bab Beyburn spitefully in the midst of general laughter. 

Jim shrank back as if he had been struck, and for a 
few minutes he stood dumb and white, listening with 
downcast eyes and heaving breast to the taunts that 
were hurled at him by some of the men in the crowd. 
After much thought and many failures, he had elabo- 
rated a system for the production of a particular kind 
of work by machinery instead of manual labour, and 
had made in metal a beautiful working model of the 
appliances by which this result was to be obtained ; 
and it was this that had been referred to as the ‘ grand 
machine.* 

‘Tell us hoo mony o’ us are to get the bag when 
Morgan buys your fine machine ! * cried the irrepressible 
Bab Beyburn. 

Jim looked up suddenly and stepped forward with a 
look of resolution. 

‘ Keep your breath to cool your broth, man ! ’ he cried 
angrily to Bab ; then he turned to the men. ‘ I will tell 


108 Norman Reid, M.A. 

you the truth,’ he said in a voice that commanded instant 
attention. ‘ My machine was made and offered to Morgan 
before I began to think so much about the effects of 
machinery upon manual labour. I’ll not deny that I 
had thoughts of the kind while I was making it. In 
fact, it was the machine itself that compelled me to 
think, and more than once I was on the point of break- 
ing it to pieces ; but I was so proud of it that I could 
not * — 

* It was a great pity that ye didna ! ’ cried a listener 
sarcastically. ‘ That wad hae been in keepin’ wi’ your 
“ equality doctrine.” ’ 

But Jim proceeded as if he heard nothing. ‘ But I 
began to see that every new invention made the lot of 
the working man more hopeless.’ 

4 Na, na ; you’re wrang there. It mak’s wark easy ! ’ 

‘ It turns men into machines ! ’ flashed Jim — 'machines 
for putting money into the master’s pockets. This inven- 
tion of mine, for instance — Morgan has offered me a 
hundred pounds for it.’ 

* Come, Jim, draw it mild.’ 

‘ A hundred pounds,’ repeated he emphatically. * It 
will produce more and better work in a day than half a 
dozen men. What then ? ’ he cried, raising his voice to 
drown the exclamations of the men. ‘ Why, the machine 
is of far more importance than the men, even than the 
man who is needed to guide the iron creature ; he is the 
machine. The iron creature thinks for him, works for 
him, supersedes him. Oh, my fellow-workmen,’ cried 
Jim, quite forgetting his personal interest in machinery, 


* Jim the Socialist . 109 

* I could groan in the streets when I think of this degrada- 
tion of our humanity. Our lot is rendered more hopeless 
by every new invention. In this foundry alone there are 
hundreds of men whose brains are dulled by the monoto- 
nous whirr and boom of the monstrous machinery which 
has done so much to take away a man’s pride in the work 
of his hands, and to make many an intelligent workman 
a mere dawdling feeder of a power which he cannot under- 
stand. And what hope is there for you except you help 
yourselves ? None. The master, here, might be made of 
his own iron for all he cares about you in your grinding 
struggles against poverty and injustice. What are you in 
his eyes but so much marketable commodity — like his 
iron ? ’ 

‘Ca’ canny, Jim. See that you young chaps in the 
crood are no’ carried off your feet by this palaver,’ cried 
old Hughie Drennan. 4 There maun be maister and man, 
rich and puir. We canna a’ be equal, I reckon — neither 
in brains nor in wealth. Some are born to serve, and 
some to rule ; and, mark my words, Jim,’ said the old man 
with a humorous wink, ‘ you’ll be a maister yoursel’ some 
day, so the less ye say the noo, the less ye’ll hae to 
repent 0’.* 

Jim reddened, but he stuck to his colours. 

* I did not say that men were born equal,’ said he. 

* What I contend for is that every man ought to have it 
in his power to share, according to his capacity, in the good 
things that are going. Don’t you think, for instance, 
that Morgan would be better liked and better served 
if his men knew that they would share in the profits 


no 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


when trade is brisk ? Then they could afford to 
work for smaller wages without grumbling when trade 
was dull.’ 

* An’ what aboot the improvident and the discontented ? * 
argued his grey-haired objector. 

‘ Oh, that state of things would be done away with if 
men could depend on each other. It’s the keen competi- 
tion that plays the mischief there/ rejoined Jim cheerily 
as the old man slowly shook his head. 

Jim had evidently a fund of hopefulness large enough 
to supply the whole town with optimism. 

* But ye haena telt us what your equality can do for 
m yet/ cried a pale thin man in the crowd. 

But Jim had got soured by these frequent interrup- 
tions. 

‘ It can do nothing for you until first of all you unite 
in making a stand for more wages from Morgan. Join 
the Trades’ Unions to a man, and he’ll soon come round. 
A fine Christian he is ! ’ sneered Jim. ‘ Your confounded 
Christians are the great hindrances to the progress of 
the world, with their preaching of “godliness with 
contentment is great gain,” and their “ bills of exchange 
upon heaven,” mere dodges for cheating the working 
man out of his proper share of all that makes life worth 
living.’ 

Norman, seeing that the conversation had taken a turn 
which rendered it difficult for him as a minister of the 
gospel to keep silence, and not wishing to embroil himself 
in a public discussion, made another attempt to extricate 
himself from the crowd, which, however, by this time had 


1 1 1 


i Jim the Socialist / 

become so large that he found it quite impossible. He 
was compelled to stand and listen. 

‘ Stick to the point, Jim, and let Morgan’s religion 
alane. It’s a pity it doesna agree better wi’ him, but 
that’s nae concern o’ yours ! ’ cried a voice. 

'Very well; I am here to ask you to set your whole 
force against these monopolists who grind the faces of 
the poor, who deny honest workmen a reasonable share of 
what their own labour has produced. There is something 
radically wrong when we working men have to plead for 
work and esteem it a favour to obtain it. Great God ! 
it would pay us better to steal.’ 

‘ Or to poach/ cried a listener slyly. 

There was a general laugh. 

* Well,’ said Jim with a smile, * it would only be robbing 
thieves — according to some folk. But I would have 
nothing to say to the like of that. I would not steal 
even the ill-gotten gains of rich men — although they 
do manage to claw everything towards them with their 
pitiful muck-rakes of land-laws. What I want for 
myself and for you is a fair chance to make honest 
money by the free use of our hands guided by our 
brains.’ 

'And wi’ sic noble sentiments, Jim, you’ll be for 
refusin’ Morgan your machine ? ’ inquired his old tor- 
mentor, Bab Bey burn. 

Jim made a gesture of impatience, but his face flushed 
hotly as again the laugh of the crowd rose against him. 

' I know what I’m about ! ’ he cried. ' But you ! 
Throw off your easy indolence and begin to think ’ — 

io 


1 12 


Norman Reid , ALA. 


‘ Come now, dinna craw sae crouse, Jim,’ cried a good- 
natured voice ; * some o’ us were thinkin’ a gey while 
before you cam’ into the warld.’ 

‘And precious little your thinking has come to/ re- 
torted Jim defiantly. 

‘ Tut, tut ! the warld’s no’ that ill to live in wi’ wark 
sae plentifu’ that the wives dinna object by-ordinar to the 
gless, ye ken. We’re no’ a’ stannin’ on our heids to look 
at the warld upside doon like you, Jim/ 

A laugh greeted the workman’s sally. 

‘ Laugh away,’ said Jim condescendingly ; ‘ but if you 
would join the Union or become Socialists, instead of 
lounging and drinking when times are good and drinking 
and swearing when times are bad ’ — 

‘ Oh, Lord, he’s a temperance reformer ! Fareweel to 
whisky ! ’ cried a voice with a groan of derision. 

‘ Band yourselves together, I say, instead of going on 
like that, and your power will revolutionise society. Then 
indeed there will be a chance for the words of our Robert 
Burns to be fulfilled, — 

Man to man the warld ower 
Shall brithers be, an’ a’ that.' 

‘ Hooray ! * cried Rab Reyburn with a waggish air ; 
* but whaur does the jinglin’ o’ the glesses come in, Jim ? 
It mak’s me dry to hear Rab Mossgiel quoted an’ nae 
sign o’ whisky forthcomin’.’ 

A few of the more thoughtful among the crowd, 
however, were beginning to show some signs of being 
impressed. They listened quietly, and to them Jim 
addressed himself. 


i Jim the Socialist l 1 13 

‘ Yes/ he cried. ‘ I would fain have masters and 
men united in the common bonds of brotherhood.’ 

Here Norman, to his own intense astonishment, in- 
terrupted the orator, and fixed the attention of the crowd 
upon himself. 

‘ There can be no true brotherhood without the belief 
in a common Father, and He is God ! ’ he cried, his voice 
ringing solemn and clear into the clear spring air. ‘ You 
sneer at Christianity, but you will only obtain true 
brotherhood and true equality by the universal possession 
of the Spirit of Christ, which alone can make men just, 
loving, and unselfish.’ 

A silence fell upon the crowd. The men looked as if 
a thunderbolt had fallen in their midst, and some of the 
older among them began to move off. A few of them 
recognised Norman, but to the majority he was simply a 
clerical stranger. 

Jim turned upon Norman with a frown upon his hand- 
some face. ‘ I know nothing about your Christianity 
except that the loudest of its professors can mind number 
one best/ he cried rudely. ‘ It’s your affair, and you’re 
paid to shove it down the people’s throats, but equality 
and brotherhood are not in the creed — they may be in 
the Bible — but they’re not in the creed as far as I have 
observed.’ 

‘I pity you sincerely/ said Norman with dignity, 
‘if you have never had the felicity of meeting with a 
true Christian. You are unfair to the genuine followers 
of Christ.’ 

‘ I know nothing about it, I tell you, sir ! ’ reiterated 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


114 

Jim impatiently. ‘ Religion is too much of a luxury for 
a simple chap like me/ 

‘ Some day you will find it a supreme necessity/ said 
Norman, looking with kindly tolerance into Jim’s boyish 
face, but beginning to realise the embarrassment of his 
position. * Come to me then, and we will talk of the true 
brotherhood of men.’ He lifted his hat and turned away, 
the crowd respectfully making room for him. 

' That’s a new pattern i’ the claith ! He served ye 
richt, Jim, my lad/ said one of the dwindling audience. 

* Oh ay/ quoth Jim, chagrined. ‘ He’s a fine one to 
preach equality ! him with his fine manse, and his big 
salary, and his black coat on every day ! It’s easy for 
honey to be sweet, say I.’ 

* He served ye richt a’ the same ! I’ll gang an’ hear him 
on Sawbath — if it’s rainin’, that is. The mistress is aye 
yammerin’ to me to gang to the kirk. She says that this 
Mr. Reid’s the verra saut 0’ the earth/ cried another man. 

‘ Well, let him keep his salt out of my porridge. 
Enough is as good as a feast of that ! ’ retorted Jim. 

‘ Dinna speak ill o’ the kirk, Jim it doesna pay ! ’ cried 
a shrill voice. 

Jim turned to the speaker with a grim smile. 

‘ Oh, you're there, Tammas Gemmel ! ’ he said. * We 
all know what you hang on by the kirk for ! ’ 

* That’s true, Tammas ! ’ roared a good-natured giant, 
lounging against the foundry gates. ‘ An’ a bonnie pictur’ 
ye mak’ on the Sawbath day, sittin’ gapin’ at the minister 
as if your body was an empty meal-poke an’ your mouth 
the way intil’t.’ 


‘ Jim the Socialist 


1 T 5 


There was a general laugh as Tammas, who was terribly 
lacking in self-esteem, slunk away ; and very soon there- 
after the crowd dispersed, seeing that the fun was all over 
and the spirit of banter had departed since Jim was some- 
how or other rather inclined to be silent now. 




A CLOUD NO BIGGER THAN A MAN’S HAND. 

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell, 

The reason why I cannot tell ; 

But this alone I know full well, 

I do not love thee, Doctor Fell. — Tom Brown. 

E will pass over the recital of Norman’s Sabbath 
ministrations, with which our story has little to 
do. Suffice it to say that his message to the 
people was delivered faithfully and well, and 
that the church was crowded with attentive hearers — some 
of whom doubtless were there to worship God, others to 
criticise the minister’s sermon and personal appearance, 
and many more simply to listen to the preacher whose 
arrival was the latest sensation in the religious world of 
Otterton. 

He won ‘golden opinions from all sorts of people/ 
One class commended him for his earnest evangelicalism, 
another for his fine literary style, and still a third, led by 
Miss Clarissa Bell — who sanctified the fashion in Free St. 
John’s by a judicious course of Christian work — for the 
graceful manner in which he wore his cloak. 

‘He was a man of kingly mould, and his cloak was so 
116 



A Cloud no bigger than a Mans Hand ’ 1 1 7 

becoming ! Why, he looked utterly divine in the pulpit!’ 
Such was Miss Clarissa’s verdict, and she, being a voracious 
reader of all the latest millinery-novels, had, as was 
well known in Otterton, a good taste in heroes ; and, 
moreover, as the young ladies connected with Free 
St. John’s admitted, she had a right to express a decided 
opinion as to the becomingness of the new minister’s 
cloak, seeing that she got all her gowns tailor-made from 
Glasgow, and that her father — an extensive millowner 
— was universally acknowledged to be the most 
honourable of bankrupts, putting himself, as he did, with 
touching candour and an appropriate gospel sentiment, 
into the hands of his creditors on the occasions of his 
septennial failures. 

Never had there been so many young and pretty 
aspirants for work in the field of Christian activity ; and 
Norman was besieged, and indeed harassed, by requests 
to find something for them to do. He rather^ disgusted 
some of the more disingenuous of the damsels by his 
method of accepting their liberal offers to help him. He 
contrived to find work for them certainly — they could 
not complain of him in that particular — but he serenely 
ignored their prettily - hinted desires for his personal 
superinten dence. 

And it was rather provoking too that he could not 
be induced to dangle about their dainty drawing-rooms, 
in which religion walked in golden slippers to suit the 
refined tastes of the Mr. Hold-the-worlds and the Mr. 
By-ends who somehow or other had managed to step 
out of The Pilgrim's Progress into the church of Free 


1 1 8 Norman Reid, Af. A. 

St. John’s; and Miss Clarissa Bell told her dearest 
friend — in strict confidence — that Mr. Beid had a decided 
preference for dirty houses and badly-dressed people, and 
she was very much afraid that he had come of vulgar 
parentage, since his taste was so very low. * One would 
think, to hear him speak, that everybody in a shabby 
gown was a saint in disguise ! ’ said this sage young lady. 

‘ He seems to believe that none but evil-doers walk in 
silk attire. I am sure that we require salvation too.’ 
True, 0 Miss Clarissa ! Get you to your Bible and 
your prayers. 

How was it possible for such as she to understand the 
yearning and the sorrow that swelled the young minister’s 
heart as he carried the gospel of Christ from day to day 
among the poor and needy of his flock ? In his first 
sermon — his text was the eighteenth verse of the fourth 
chapter of St. Luke — 4 The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, 
because He hath anointed me to preach the gospel to the 
poor,’ etc. — he had plainly sounded forth the keynote 
of his ministry. His model was the weary and heavy- 
laden Christ, and his message was chiefly to the down- 
trodden and the sinful — to the reckless fathers who 
reeled about the streets, perhaps because they were afraid 
of some white-faced, wronged woman sitting among crying 
children in the desolate home ; and to the slatternly 
mothers whose stunted lives oppressed his chivalrous 
heart ; and to the little toddling children just beginning 
to lisp the devil’s language while yet a faint reflex of 
heaven’s own blue lingered in their eyes. These were 
Norman’s chiefest care, and there is little wonder that he 


A Cloud no bigger than a Mans Hand. 1 1 9 

seldom felt in trim for the luxurious drawing-rooms and 
the perfumed insipidity of the merely fashionable young 
ladies of the church. 

But he had a band of willing Christian workers — 
strong young men not ashamed of the cause of Christ, 
pure-hearted maidens, unconsciously betraying that they 
had seen the Holy Grail, and many others in the church, 
both old and young, who helped him in his sacred 
labours. 

The poor idolised him. Wherever he went kind 
greetings and silent blessings attended him, and not alone 
in preaching the gospel but in many practical ways did 
he seek to benefit them ; for it was his firm belief that to 
win the souls of the ignorant and careworn people, one 
must in the first place minister to their bodily necessities. 

One project lay very near his heart. He had beep 
painfully struck by the great amount of aimless lounging 
at street corners indulged in by the men and boys of the 
Waterside more especially, and he had a strong desire to 
get a building suitable for a working men’s club in the 
vicinity of that quarter. 

With this project in his mind he one Saturday after- 
noon crossed the Otter to the house of Mr. Morgan, who 
was the largest employer of labour in the district. 

It was a sunny afternoon in May, and, as he entered 
the pleasant avenue of beeches leading to the mansion, 
his eye rested with a sense of refreshing coolness on the 
crisp young foliage shaking itself free from the protecting 
bronze sheaths, which fell in soft showers to the grass at 
every breath of the west wind. 

11 


120 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


He passed by the parterres gay with tulips and rho- 
dodendron clumps, and, after ascending the sweeping steps 
with their ivy-clad stone balustrades, he rang the bell 
and was at once admitted into the dining-room, where 
sat the master of the house, evidently just awakened 
from a nap. 

He greeted Norman with marked affability, for he took 
some pains to show his good-will towards the young 
minister ; but the latter, on this as on every other occasion 
on which he came into contact with his ruling elder, had 
to fight against an inexplicable feeling of antipathy 
towards him. 

Norman had often taken himself to task for this, and 
had tried in vain to account for it ; but the fact remained 
that he often had to curb an unmistakable tendency to 
oppose through sheer contradictoriness some of the many 
elaborate schemes for the good of the church propounded 
by Mr. Morgan. 

Norman had plenty of common sense, and, moreover, 
he was shrewd enough to see that a man like his ruling 
elder must be either friend or foe ; for Mr. Morgan had 
a somewhat tyrannical energy of will, and, although his 
views were often narrow and his self-conceit always 
boundless, he was a liberal benefactor to the church 
and, as far as Norman could judge, a just and good 
man. 

Norman strove, therefore, to keep his own somewhat 
imperious personality in subjection, and was fain to 
content himself with seconding many proposals for the 
benefit of the church, which, curiously enough, had pre- 


A Cloud no bigger than a Mans Hand. 1 2 1 

sented themselves originally to his own mind in his 
private meditations. He found indeed, with a sense of 
puzzled surprise, that his mind was an unwilling echo of 
Mr. Morgan’s, and to a man of Norman’s independent 
judgment there was something startling and repellent in 
this phenomenon. 

It is, of course, no uncommon thing for two men who 
have studied one subject to arrive at the same conclu- 
sions ; but to Norman it was a matter of intense surprise 
to find his mind the Doppelganger of a man towards 
whom he entertained a real though apparently groundless 
aversion. 

However, he unfolded his scheme for the Waterside 
Club, and — for once — he discovered that his idea was 
entirely original ! 

Mr. Morgan rose from his easy-chair and stood in 
front of the fire with a frown upon his face. 

‘ You are a new-comer, Mr. Keid,’ he said, * and of 
course cannot be expected to know the calibre of the 
working men belonging to the foundries and the 
factories. They are a discontented lot — always grumbling 
against their employers and stirring up strife. Just the 
other day, for instance, it came to my knowledge that the 
formation of a Trade’s Union among my men was being 
vainly attempted, and this state of matters has been 
brought about by the senseless talk of a young fellow 
calling himself a Socialist.’ 

* Ah ! ’ exclaimed Norman. ‘ I heard him lecturing to 
the men one Saturday afternoon about a fortnight ago.’ 

* You heard him ? ’ said Mr. Morgan with very mani- 


122 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


fest displeasure. * You don’t mean to tell me that you 
stopped to listen to him ! ’ 

Norman flushed high with resentment. 

4 Certainly I did. Why not ? It is true that I 
got wedged into the crowd before I was aware ; 
but I certainly stopped to hear what he had got to 
say.’ 

‘ But, my dear sir, think of the construction that may 
be put upon your procedure ! Think of the example 
you thus showed ! * 

‘ Mr. Morgan,’ replied Norman with some heat, * is a 
minister to be a walking automaton with neither ears 
nor eyes of any use to him? I think you forget your- 
self to use such expressions regarding my conduct. I 
was naturally anxious to know of anything that was 
absorbing the thoughts of the people I had come among. 
That was my sole reason for listening to this — Jim 
Borland, I think they called him.’ 

‘He is a pestilent fellow ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Morgan, 
striding about the room in his agitation. * He has been 
in America lately, and has returned cram full of this fad. 
His father is my foreman moulder, and an eminently 
sensible and serviceable man, and he tells me that he 
has warned his son over and over again against so reck- 
lessly perverting the minds of the workmen. I would 
soon put a stop to his mischief-making, but I am not 
prepared to go to extremes. The truth is that he is the 
inventor of a valuable machine that I wish to buy from 
him. But let me once get it into my hands and the 
fellow shall march. Just imagine his presumption! — a 


A Cloud no bigger than a Mans Hand. 1 23 

mere mechanic, a poor lad brought up in the work ! 
Why, I have heard that my father used to thrash him 
for his impertinent prying about the foundry when he 
was a boy ! * 

It occurred to Norman that the young man would 
probably pay off these old scores — and any new ones 
besides that might need settling — in a manner not con- 
templated by Mr. Morgan. He rose silently and held 
out his hand. 

‘ Then I need not count on your support regarding my 
club ? * he said stiffly. 

At this moment the dining-room door was opened, and 
Clara Porteous, who was unaware of the presence of a 
visitor, entered the room. 

Norman gave an uncontrollable start of surprise, and 
Clara turned very pale as their eyes met. 

Mr. Morgan, who was preoccupied and angry still, and 
who, moreover, was too self-centred to be very penetrating, 
saw nothing in the embarrassing situation beyond the 
natural hesitancy of two strangers meeting thus unex- 
pectedly. He hastened to put Clara at her ease by 
leading her forward with the intention of introducing her 
to the young minister. 

4 You need not trouble to introduce us, uncle,’ she said 
in a low voice. ‘ Mr. Reid and I are already acquainted.’ 

She bowed gravely to Norman and held out her hand, 
which he clasped as in a dream. 

‘ You did not expect to see me at Otterton,’ she said 
with a smile. She had the advantage of him inasmuch 
as she had expected sooner or later to be brought face 


1 24 Norman Reid ’ ALA . 

to face with him, while he had never dreamed of meeting 
her thus. 

Norman had some difficulty in retaining his self- 
possession, for her familiar face, dearer than ever in his 
eyes, moved him profoundly. He could but wonder at 
her womanly tact as he murmured some commonplace 
reply. 

‘You did not tell me that you knew Mr. Reid, my 
dear ? ’ said her uncle inquiringly. 

‘No. You know that I have been trying, at your 
desire, to forget my old life. But I must apologise for 
coming into the dining-room. I would not have in- 
terrupted you if I had known there was any one with 
you, ! she said, crossing over to the window and sitting 
down composedly. But Norman knew that her com- 
posure was a mask to conceal her agitation, and again he 
made a movement to go. 

‘You came at an opportune moment, Clara,’ said her 
uncle with a smile. ‘ Mr. Reid and I were getting on 
dangerous ground. What ! must you really go ? But I 
daresay you are anxious to get back to your study — 
Saturday is a busy day with ministers. In that case we 
won’t detain you. Nobody knows better than I that 
there must be a constant preparation and tending of the 
vineyard, although we must never forget that “ neither is 
he that planteth anything, neither he that watereth, 
but God that giveth the increase,’” said Mr. Morgan, 
accompanying Norman to the door. 

The dragged-in text disgusted the young minister even 
in the midst of the tumultuous emotions awakened by 


A Cloud no bigger than a Mads Hand. 125 

Clara’s unexpected appearance, and as be walked home- 
ward by the rippling Otter, sparkling in the mystic silver 
glory of a Shekinah under the cloudless sunshine, he was 
half inclined to suspect that the sap of sincerity had 
long since evaporated from the choice and applicable 
texts which rolled so glibly upon occasion from the lips 
of his ruling elder. He found himself puzzling over the 
old problem of his unconquerable antipathy towards 
him. Could it be because of an instinctive feeling that 
the ruling elder was a hypocrite ? But he shook the 
thought from him and again took himself to task for his 
lack of charity. 

I wonder what Norman would have thought of a 
certain nightly ceremony which was as piously observed 
as household prayers in the home of the ruling elder ? 
Would it have filled him with remorse for his hard 
thoughts, or would it have given them a more vivid life ? 
For after Mr. Morgan was securely alone for the night, 
he might have been seen bending over an escritoire which 
stood in a corner of his bed-chamber, and lifting out of 
its secret recess, with hands that lingered lovingly over 
the act, a tiny miniature of a spirited woman’s face, 
richly framed in purple velvet. He might have been 
seen gazing with tenderest love upon the pictured 
feminine face whose brilliant eyes met his own with 
smiling frankness as he stooped to kiss the proud arch 
of the ruby lips before returning the miniature to its 
secret resting-place. Was it an act of penance, or was 
it a nightly offering to the memory of some ancient 
sentiment ? 


126 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


But Norman knew nothing of this as he mused on his 
unsatisfactory relations with Mr. Morgan, and soon the 
subject was dismissed from his thoughts as the image of 
Clara presented itself, adding a new element to his 
uneasiness. 

How did she come to be living so familiarly there ? 
Surely he had heard her call Mr. Morgan ‘ uncle ’ ? Ah ! 
he recollected how on that first Friday after his coming 
to Otterton he had met Mr. Morgan at the station on 
his way to see a friend who had had an accident in 
Edinburgh. It must have been Clara’s father; but that 
did not altogether explain her presence in Otterton, 
unless, indeed, her father being dead now, she had seen 
how difficult it was to pursue her art in poverty and 
alone and had come to live in Otterton with her uncle. 
Strange that she had not told him of this uncle in 
Otterton ! But she was here ; and at the thought 
Norman’s heart beat quickly. Clara was here ! Day 
after day she would be here ! How passing strange that 
they should meet thus ! and he looked up with a thrill 
of gladness as he took to himself a delightful sense of 
comfort from the thought that the same bit of sunny sky 
arched over both their heads. 




CHAPTER XIIL 

AN OLD STORY. 

0 waly, waly, but love is bonnie 
A little time while it is new ! — Scotch Ballad . 

ATIE,’ said Norman as his faithful house- 
keeper was serving his solitary dinner on 
the evening of the day upon which he had 
met Clara at her uncle’s house, ‘ I have 
had a great surprise to-day. I have discovered that 
Miss Porteous is at present staying here with her uncle, 
Mr. Morgan.’ 

* Mr. Morgan ! Her uncle ! ’ exclaimed Katie with a 
strange expression on her face. 4 1 heard tell that a 
young lady was stayin’ with him for her health, but I 
never thocht it could be oor Miss Clara. Her uncle, 
ds he ? ' 

* Yes, so it appears,’ replied Norman musingly, while 
Katie was so much confused apparently by the intelli- 
gence that she paused in the very act of helping Norman 
to a further supply of potatoes. 

‘ But, dearie me ! ’ said she, recovering herself with a 
start ; * I thocht that she had no freends o’ her ain ? I’ve 



128 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


heard your mother say so. It’s a very queer thing to think 
that her uncle is — livin’ here/ concluded Katie lamely. 

‘ I am inclined to think that she herself was ignorant 
of that fact till very lately/ said Norman. ‘ It is possible 
that Clara did not know of it until about the time of her 
father’s death.’ He then told Katie of his conclusions 
regarding his meeting with Mr. Morgan at the station. 
‘ I never heard her say that her mother’s name was 
Morgan, but she always seemed to me to be very reticent 
about her mother’s friends.’ 

‘ Maybe she had guid reasons/ said Katie meaningly. 
‘ But she’s aye been a very close young leddy. I didna 
think, though, that she would have kept her cornin’ here 
a secret from you , Norman.’ 

‘ Katie/ said he hesitatingly, * our engagement is broken 
off. Clara thought — that is — In short, it would be as 
well that nobody in Otterton should know anything 
about Miss Porteous through you. I am almost certain 
that her uncle knows nothing about our former — 
friendship.’ 

It cost Norman a good deal to tell Katie this, especially 
as she stood before him with her small figure set stiffly 
upright, with arms akimbo and a look of angry amaze- 
ment upon her face. 

‘ Dinna be feared that I'll clash the affairs o’ this hoose. 
Eh, lad, when did ye ever hear tell o’ auld Katie turnin’ 
toon-crier ? * 

‘ Don’t be angry, Katie/ Norman remonstrated. 4 But 
I have reason to believe that Miss Porteous would be 
hurt if anything was known about our past engagement. 


An Old Story. 129 

‘If I thocht that she had lichtlied ye!’ exclaimed 
Katie indignantly. 

‘No, no, Katie. It can’t be helped, and just keep 
our secret.’ 

‘ Oh, I’ll do that — though mony ane spiers at me if 
the new minister’s engaged to be married. Fine ken I 
what way the leddy visitors smile on auld Katie when they 
come to the Manse door. But, laddie, laddie, you’re such 
a simple chield that you will fa’ into their clutches noo .’ 

‘ Nonsense, Katie ! I thought you had more sense.’ 

‘ Sense ! I maun credit the testimony o’ my een. 
There’s anither pair o’ slippers come the day, and that 
makes the fifth pair in as mony weeks ; what does that 
mean, unless the leddies think ye a Jenny-hunder-feet ? ’ 
said Katie triumphantly. ‘And that chicken on the 
table cam’ this mornin’ with a bit text tied round the leg 
o’t. ’Od, it spoke to me as plain as Balaam’s ass. “Ye 
dinna need to want a wife,” quo’ the chuckie ! ’ 

Norman laughed, but he felt rather uncomfortable. 

‘ Come, come, Katie. You know very well that it is 
just the hospitable west-country way of these ladies. 
They want to make me feel at home among them.’ 

‘ Umphm !’ said Katie. ‘ But it was aye a puzzle to 
me to think what women-folk can see in ministers — 
ministers and sodgers. But I’m no’ sayin’ but what there 
may be blind guid sense at the bottom 0’ their fancy for 
ministers ; — they’ll aiblins fancy them nearer heaven than 
ither men ; and, mind ye, Norman, they should be, they 
ought to be, reading the Buik so much and cornin’ nearer 
to the mind 0’ God than ither folk.’ 


130 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


‘That’s true, Katie/ said Norman gravely as he rose 
from the table, ‘ and our responsibility is all the greater 
on that account. Has Adam Auld been here to-night ? ’ 

It was Adam’s usual custom to come to the Manse 
every Saturday evening for the purpose of getting the 
numbers of the psalms which were to be sung on the 
Sabbath, and giving them to the precentor whose duty 
it was to find suitable tunes for them. 

‘ No, not yet/ said Katie, removing the dishes ; * he’s 
an aff-pittin’ body.’ 

Norman rapidly jotted the selected verses down on a 
slip of paper and gave it to Katie. 

‘ Ask him how his blind niece is, will you ? I’ve half 
an idea that her blindness might be cured. I wonder if 
Adam would allow me to bring Dr. Neaves to see her 
when he comes to spend his vacation with me ? Do you 
know if she has ever had medical advice ? ’ 

‘ No, I dinna ken. Auld Adam would be a proud man 
if Mysie won back her sight.’ 

‘Well, don’t ufisettle his mind about the matter yet, 
Katie. I may be wrong in thinking that her sight can 
be restored. Just tell him that I am coming to see 
Mysie very soon. Now, Katie, don’t let me be disturbed 
to-night if you can help it/ said Norman as he proceeded 
to his study. 

Katie, as was her custom, had a long and confidential 
talk with herself as she sat sewing in her trim kitchen 
after the little maid who did the rougher work of the 
house had gone home for the night ; and the result was 
that she took the pen in her unaccustomed hand and 


An Old Story . 13 1 

wrote a letter to her absent mistress, which, when it 
reached that lady, caused her much perturbation and 
uneasy thought. Katie did not finish her letter that 
night, however, for her laborious pen halted at the 
sound of Adam Auld’s modest tapping at the kitchen 
door. 

* Come in/ said Katie graciously, for she had a special 
reason for desiring a chat with Adam to-night. 

He entered, with his straw hat in one hand and in 
the other a bunch of early rhubarb. 

‘ Dear me, Mr. Auld, I thocht the roads would hae 
been clean this bonnie nicht/ said Katie, looking 
pointedly at Adam’s dusty boots. ‘ But men-folk aye 
carry in a’ the dirt that’s gaun/ 

Adam looked sheepishly at his feet and carefully drew 
them to and fro along the door-mat. 

* Hoots, never mind ! they’ll do noo, surely. Dinna 
rub the mat clean through the floor. You’re no’ so bad 
as Borland, your worthy brither-in-law. He disna come 
to the kitchen door o’ the Manse. Nothing but the front 
door will serve him , and the last time he was in the 
minister’s study he left as muckle snuff on the table- 
cover as would hae killed every moth in the country- 
side. I shook it ower the window afore his very face, 
and, if you’ll believe me, ye might hae heard the wind 
sneezin’ as it flew by. Hoo’s Mysie ? ’ 

Adam had meekly collapsed under the rapid avalanche 
of talk. He now recovered, and, with the rhubarb held 
forth as a peace-offering, said, — 

* She’s fine, and she telt me to bring ye a tastin’ 0’ the 


132 Norman Reid \ M.A. 

first 0’ the rhubarb. It’s no’ ready in the Manse garden 
yet, ye ken.’ 

‘ An’ that’s a mystery to me, seein’ that ye have the 
charge o’ baith oor grund an’ your ain,’ said Katie with 
a caustic smile. * But it’s bonnie rhubarb, and I’m 
obliged to Mysie and you.’ 

4 You’re very welcome,’ said Adam with a sigh of 
relief, for he stood rather in awe of Katie’s unsparing 
tongue. 

‘Did ye ken that Morgan has a young leddy bidin’ 
wi’ him ? ’ said Katie with assumed indifference. 

‘ Ay, I saw her yestreen ; but she’s been here for some 
weeks, I hear. She’s his niece — a bonnie lass, but white 
and sickly. She was ill a while after she cam’ here,’ 
said Adam. * They say that Morgan has ta’en her hame 
because her father is dead. He can do kind things 
when it comes up his ain back. The lassie’s mither was 
his only sister.’ 

*1 didna ken he had a sister/ 

* Oh, it’s an auld story,’ rejoined Adam, venturing to 
cross his legs in a more comfortable attitude. 

‘ Let’s hear it, Mr. Auld, if ye please. I hae leisure 
for a crack the nicht,’ said Katie in her most gracious 
manner. 

‘Weel, this Miss Morgan was a silly young thing at 
the boardin’-schule when she ran awa’ wi’ the drawin’- 
master 0’ the concern. There was a bonnie rumpus 
anent the business, I can tell you, for auld Mrs. Morgan 
was a prood madam and had ither views for her ae 
dochter.’ 


133 


An Old Story . 

‘That’s a queer story/ said Katie, sewing busily. 
‘The boardin’-schule hadna been sair conducted if a young 
lass found time to think aboot lads and sic trash.’ 

* Oh, they find plenty of time for that ! ’ said Adam, 
nettled at Katie’s contemptuous notice of his kind. 
* And they’re but silly things, young lassies. This 
drawin’-master — Porteous his name was — wad hae nae 
mair ado. I’ll warrant, but jist gie a beckon o’ his hand 
and a glint o’ his ee, and aff she wad gang ’ — 

‘ Haud your tongue ! ’ cried Katie, ‘ and dinna deave 
me wi’ your nonsense. Tell your story strecht forrit.’ 

‘ Weel, weel ; Porteous was a wiselike fellow, and 
the lass didna need muckle priggin’. She cam’ doon 
at his ca’ as easy as I’ll cut the grass on a dewy 
morn in’ ’ — 

* There ye go, Adam Auld ! ’ 

‘ Weel, she was a bonnie, licht-heided thing, puir thing, 
and she thocht it fine to rin awa’ frae the schule, and 
get married aff-hand. Syne the pair cam’ here to the 
auld folk, and doon on their knees they fell ’ — 

* And hoo ken ye that ? ’ said Katie grimly. 

‘ That’s what aye happens, I’m telt,’ replied Adam, 
nothing daunted. ‘ I like to keep to nature, Mrs. 
Lawson. Doon on their knees they bode to hae gaen, 
wi’ a “ Korgie us, and we’ll, be guid bairns.” But what 
does auld madam do but up and turn upon them and 
forbid them the house in spite o’ her canny guidman! 
But the mistress was made o’ iron, and oot o’ the house 
she drove them wi’ her insults, and never did she see her 
bonnie young dochter’s face again.’ 


134 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


* The hard-hearted woman ! * exclaimed Katie, while 
her sewing dropped forgotten to the floor. 

‘ Ay, ye may weel say that. Her ae dochter, and her 
but a young thing, inveigled into a marriage wi’ a fellow 
that turned oot a scamp, they say. I’ve heard that the 
lassie wrote letters to her mither, and to her father and 
brither as weel, but the mistress burned them wi’ her 
ain hand. She had her ain way o’ lookin’ at the thing, 
ye s6e, for she was a prood woman, and she was sair 
affronted wi’ her silly dochter — no’ to speak o’ a feckless 
man and a wild son.’ 

‘ Ay ? a wild son, say ye ? * Katie said with a keen 
look. 

‘ Weel,’ said Adam with a grin, ‘ he wasna exactly the 
perfect Christian character he’s been sinsyne. Some 
folk said that when he was awa’ in the North in his 
young days he gaed his length.’ 

‘ Whaur was he at the time o’ his sister’s marriage ? * 

‘He was abroad — but that’s a wide and convenient 
word. It’s ane-and-twenty years syne, and we needna 
rake up his past. It will be ten years since he cam’ 
hame, but folk say that he left a wife ahint him.’ 

‘Folk are unco fond o’ a clash,’ said Katie serenely, 
rising as she spoke. ‘ Here’s the psalms, Adam, and gie 
Mysie my best respects. I’ll need to be gettin’ things in 
order for the morn noo/ 

‘ Weel, I’ll awa’,’ said Adam, rising stiffly and rubbing 
his knees with a careful hand. ‘ Guid-nicht, Mrs. 
Lawson.’ 

Katie sat still a long time after his departure, and her 


An Old Story. 135 

face would have puzzled the shrewdest of physiognomists 
by its conflicting changes of expression. 

She drew forth her letter and carefully re-read it with 
many nods and half audible remarks ; but she was too 
tired to finish it that night, and it was not until the 
following Monday that it was satisfactorily concluded 
and sent off to Mentone. 

12 




CHAPTER XIY. 

MOTHER AND SON. 

Forget the dead, the past ? Oh yet 
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it ; 

Memories that make the heart a tomb, 

Regrets that glide through the spirit’s gloom. 

Shelley. 

FEW days after Katie’s letter had reached its 
destination, Norman received one from his 
mother which caused him some uneasiness. 
She stated that she was suffering from 
the heat which had suddenly become too intense and 
relaxing to permit of her remaining much longer at 
Mentone, and she begged him therefore to come to her 
as soon as he conveniently could, so that they might 
decide where she should spend the summer months, for 
she did not feel strong enough to take up her immediate 
abode in a town so noisy and smoky as she understood 
Otter ton to be. 

Norman fancied that the letter was somewhat con- 
strained in tone, and, moreover, he was much disappointed 
that she could not come at once to Otterton. He saw 
plainly enough, however, that she was really ill ; so, after 

136 



Mother and Son . 


*37 

making hasty arrangements for the supply of his pulpit 
and the visiting of the sick, he left for Mentone. 

When he arrived he found his mother feverishly 
anxious to get to Eothesay, where in the interval she 
had resolved to go. She fancied that its mild and 
salubrious air would just suit her, and at the same time it 
was within easy reach of Otterton so that Norman might 
occasionally visit her for a day or two ; and thus she 
would regain something of the home feeling that she had 
so sadly missed and yearned for all these past months. 

Norman was alarmed at her haggard appearance, and 
he suspected that she had some cause for mental dis- 
quietude. Such apparently groundless paroxysms . of 
restlessness and perturbation were not uncommon in her 
invalid life, but Norman had reason to believe that his 
mother brooded over a secret trouble until the mood 
reached its periodical crisis in an access of bodily illness. 

He therefore soothed her as he so well knew how to 
do, and lost no time in gratifying her sick whim — as he 
considered it — of going to Eothesay instead of to 
Otterton. 

They travelled by easy stages, and on the afternoon 
of a lovely May day they landed on Eothesay pier. 

It did not take Norman long to procure suitable 
lodgings, and Mrs. Eeid expressed her pleasure at finding 
herself in the possession of rooms whence she could 
obtain a view of ‘ sweet Eothesay Bay.' 

Let us glance for a moment at Norman’s mother as 
she sits resting after tea in a low chair by the window 
opposite her tall son. 


138 Norman Reid \ M.A . 

That she was no mere commonplace matron whose 
uneventful days had been filled with the joys and 
sorrows of ordinary domestic life, was abundantly 
evident ; rather was she one of those slightly for- 
bidding human beings of whom we vaguely surmise 
that they have ‘a history,’ by which we mean that 
some exceptional experience or inner tragedy has 
left its secret visible, yet undecipherable, upon their 
countenances. 

Mrs. Reid was apparently about forty-five years of 
age. Her face, which was framed in a cap of delicate 
lace almost hiding the soft brown hair slightly sprinkled 
with grey, was still sweet and comely, although ill-health 
had bereft it of its bloom, and sorrow had furrowed it 
deeply ; but her eyes were bright yet, and in their lucid 
brown depths there dwelt a brave and quiet vigilance 
which showed that her spirit had not been crushed 
beneath her secret burden, whatever it was. 

The light flashed upon her white and jewelled hands 
as she leaned back in the low rocking-chair, and her rich 
gown of lustreless black silk rustled softly as now and 
again she set the chair in motion with her silent foot. 

There was no apparent resemblance between this 
mother and son ; the likeness, if any, was other and 
deeper than that of mere outward form and expression. 

The mother’s face, moreover, was small and delicately 
featured, and this lent a fictitious air of youth to her 
which was further accentuated by the graceful fragility 
of her figure; while her son’s massive outline of head 
and strongly-marked features combined with his stalwart 


Mother and Son . 


139 

form to make him look older than his four-and-twenty 
years warranted. 

‘ Mother/ said Norman in a pause of the brisk dialogue 
of question and answer which had been going on, for 
they had much to say to each other after their long 
separation, ‘ how glad I am that at last I can take care 
of you ! All my life you have been taking care of me, but 
now the tables are turned, and you are soon coming 
home with me, and you shall sit in the easiest chair and 
look happy and gracious, and do nothing at all but rest 
and enjoy yourself. I am very thankful that at last I 
am able in some small measure to repay you for the 
many sacrifices you have made that I might be educated 
for the ministry. Your priceless love I can never 
repay/ 

‘Nonsense; you must not talk of repaying me. 
Mothers love never counts the cost, Norman/ said she 
with a smile. * But what is all this between Clara and 
you ? Your letters were rather unsatisfactory, and I 
only gathered from them that your engagement was at 
an end because she found that marriage would interfere 
with her pursuit of art; that seemed to me a very 
unique reason to be given by a woman for breaking off 
an engagement ! * 

‘ It is just as I told you, mother ; but I do not despair 
of making her my wife. If you would but come very 
soon to Otterton, perhaps you could talk over the affair 
with her. She is not like other girls — she is a little 
peculiar in some things. Did I tell you that she is at 
present staying at Otterton ? ’ 


140 


Normcin Reid, M.A. 


‘ I know. Katie told me that she was staying there 
with her newly-found uncle, Mr. Morgan/ 

‘ Katie told you ! ’ said Norman in surprise. 

‘ Yes , 5 replied his mother calmly. 4 She lately wrote 
me “ a full, true, and particular account ” of all that was 
going on at Otterton. I found it a very good and 
needful supplement to your letters. By the way, what 
sort of a man is this Mr. Morgan ? 5 

f Oh, he is a domineering fellow ! I can’t say I care 
much for him, but he appears to be very favourably dis- 
posed towards me in the meantime. He is a man of 
wealth and position in the town, and he is very liberal 
to the church. He is the owner of Otterbank Foundry, 
and employs about five hundred men ; — but surely I 
have told you all this in my letters ? I suppose that 
Katie would tell you the romantic story she told me 
about the runaway marriage of Clara’s parents and 
the discovery of Clara by her uncle ? I am glad that 
she has found such a good home. Her uncle is very 
proud of her, I can see, and, as he is unmarried, it is, of 
course, a great satisfaction to him to have found some 
one of his own kith and kin to enliven his big house 
and inherit his riches. He told me so himself — Why, 
mother ! are you cold ? ’ cried Norman, interrupting 
himself as he observed that she shivered and drew a 
large white shawl about her shoulders. ‘ I shall ring 
for more coals. Let me lead you to this cosy nook by 
the fire. Why, your hand is as cold as ice ! What a 
chilly old dame you are, to be sure ! ’ he cried with 
solicitous kindness, for his mother was very dear to him. 


Mother and Son . 


14 1 

* You will be chilly too after a tiresome journey of 
several days when you are as old as I am/ she said 
playfully as he knelt on the rug and stirred the fire 
into a warmer glow. He then rang the bell, and after 
the fire had been replenished and the maid had with- 
drawn, Mrs. Reid stretched her hands towards the leaping 
flames and said with some hesitation of manner, ‘Norman 
— Norman, I want you to make me a promise.’ 

* Well, mother ? ’ 

* Promise me that you will on no account, no matter 
how much you may be provoked, quarrel with this Mr. 
Morgan.’ 

Norman looked at his mother in amazement ; and he 
observed upon her face a look of painfully suppressed 
emotion, which he had long ago learned to dread. 

‘ That is a strange request, mother. What is your 
reason for asking me to promise you that ? ’ 

‘I cannot tell you— yet. Only trust me, my son. I 
have an all-sufficient reason for exacting this strange 
promise from you.’ 

‘But I don’t see any necessity for promising. Why 
should there be any occasion for quarrelling with Mr. 
Morgan ? I am not a fire-eater by any means, mother. 
I am not at all likely to bring the cause of Christ into 
disrepute in such a fashion. Do you know anything 
about this gentleman that leads you to think he is 
quarrelsome ? ’ 

‘ I know him/ she replied in a curious tone of constraint. 

‘ Indeed ! How strange ! Why did you never tell 
me ? ’ he said. 


142 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


‘Ask me no more to-night, Norman. Since I heard 
from your letters and from Katie that he lived at Otterton, 
I have been oppressed by many thoughts. Oh, my son, 
I am preparing myself for an^ ordeal which I never 
dreamed that I should have to face ! Let that suffice 
until I disclosk all — but love me and trust me, Norman ; 
only love me and trust me.’ 

She stretched out her hand hysterically towards him, 
and he took the tremulous hand and carried it silently to 
his lips. Although he was much surprised, from his 
boyhood he had been accustomed to witness his mother’s 
peculiar moods. Sometimes scattered words and hastily 
repented-of hints had been given him, and these had 
shadowed his thoughtful youth, for thereby he had 
learned to associate his mother’s unhappiness with the 
name of the father whom he had never known. 

He divined that something more tragic than the 
natural grief of widowhood lay in his mother’s past and 
clouded her life. Was it dread ? AVas it wrong-doing ? 
— He knew not ; but as he sat with her in the fire-lit 
room of her Eothesay lodgings while the shadows of 
evening fell, he realised for the first time that the deeper 
shadows of that secret trouble might possibly touch him 
in a more threatening and personal manner than he had 
ever conceived they would. • 

A flood of compassion for his mother surged through 
his strong young heart. He drew near in the twilight 
and kissed her tenderly. ‘ Oh, mother,’ he said, * I will 
trust you. I love you, my own mother, and nothing 
shall ever come between us — nothing ; and if it is any 


Mother and Son . 


M3 


comfort to you to get my promise that I will not quarrel 
with Mr. Morgan, you have it, mother dear/ And she 
sobbed hysterically as she kissed him again and again. 

Norman stayed a few days longer at Rothesay ; then, 
having seen his mother comfortably settled, he returned 
to Otteiton. 

13 




CHAPTER XV. 

BLIND MYSIE. 

There are in this loud stunning tide 
Of human care and crime, 

With whom the melodies abide 
Of the everlasting chime. 

FEW weeks after his return from Bothesay, 
Norman sought Adam Auld’s little cottage, 
which now stood embowered in green, a very 
inviting rest and refuge from the glare of the 
sun-baked streets through which Norman had just taken 
his way. 

Adam, as usual, was in his garden, pottering about 
among the multitudinous growths in which his soul 
delighted. He cultivated early vegetables with a practical 
eye to the main chance, and at this season of the year 
when lusty cabbages were elbowing each other, and 
seedling turnips demanding more abundant room for the 
survival of the fittest of their race, and the soldierly rows 
of peas, aflutter with butterfly blossoms, were beginning 
to send adventurous tendrils beyond the safe prison of 
their fir-bough supports, and the parsley was a perfect 
jungle of crisp greenness ; — when, in short, the whole 

141 



Blind Mysie . 145 

garden had an air of overgrown luxuriance that sorely 
tried Adam’s ingenuity to find space for his various 
treasures, he was apt to wax impatient over Mysie’s 
4 unprofitably gay ’ flower-borders, and even to harbour a 
grudge against the crooked laburnum trees that drooped 
their golden tresses over the deadly-fair purple blooms of 
the potato patch. 

‘ What’s the use o’ them, Mysie ? ’ he would ask. 

‘ If the flower was followed by ony fruit that’s guid to 
eat and no’ by poisonous pea -pods to tempt careless 
weans, there wad be some sense in lettiu’ them grow.’ 

To which Mysie would reply, ‘ The laburnum pods 
are o’ some use, ye needna doot, since God makes 
naething in vain, and I like to think about the 
bonnie yellow flowers I canna see,’ — a rejoinder which 
always left Adam remorsefully tender of the smallest 
twig of the laburnums for Mysie’s sake, even al- 
though she sometimes playfully pressed her advantage 
by saying, ‘ Laburnum’s a bonnie flower, uncle, and 
gies pleasure to the ee ; no’ but what I ken fine 
what you’ll say to that ! But I needna speak, for weel 
I ken that ye never looked on a field of barley ripenin’ 
in the sun without thinkin’ on the price the grain wad 
bring.’ 

So year after year the laburnums grew and made a 
dappled shade in the midst of the garden, holding their 
own with the lichened apple-trees that showered their 
rosy snow of blossom to grace the ‘bridal of the earth 
and sky/ 

Adam glanced over the sweet-brier hedge separating 


146 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


his garden from the dusty road, and saw the minister 
approaching with a somewhat listless step and downcast 
eyes ; for in truth Norman, having been visiting in some 
of the most squalid quarters of the town, was feeling with 
unusual keenness the responsibility of his office. He had 
come into contact with the old, old mystery of suffering ; 
he had sickened in soul and body amid the pollution and 
unblushingness of sin ; and he was feeling how impos- 
sible it was for him, except through the fellowship 
of the Holy Spirit, to do anything to lighten the care, 
the sorrow, the ‘ burden of the mystery/ which seemed 
to dog the steps of the children of 4 this unintelligible 
world.’ 

With a prayer in his heart he had come forth into the 
sunlit streets, and the cool green garden by the roadside 
was to him a veritable pleasant Arbour on the side of the 
Hill Difficulty. 

Adam stuck his spade in the ground and went forward 
to meet him, mumbling to himself, ‘ Ay, ay. His heid 
is hingin’, and that’s a sign that he is heavy-hearted ; 
but I’ve heard tell that he carries a h an tie o’ thocht in 
that same heid o’ his. It’s the barren tree that lifts 
its branches to the cluds, for it hasna a crop 0* bonnie 
rosy apples to keep it near the ground ; — he's nae barren 
tree.’ 

‘ Hoo are ye the day, Mr. Reid ? It’s a fine growin’ 
day.’ 

4 A fine day, Adam ; and how is your rheuma- 
tism ? ’ 

‘ ’Od, I canna compleen,’ answered Adam, as if he would 


Blind A/ysie. 147 

have done so had it been at all possible. ‘ You’ll be 
for cornin’ in to see Mysie ? * 

* Yes. I have been thinking, Adam, that she ought to 
get the opinion of an oculist about her eyes. It is 
possible that her sight might be restored, and I have a 
friend — Doctor Heaves — who is very skilful; so, as he is 
coming to spend part of his vacation with me, I thought 
that it would be a good opportunity to get his opinion 
about Mysie. It won’t put you to any expense, you 
know, Adam,’ said Norman kindly. 

‘ Eh, man, I wadna mind the expense, if it was but 
possible that my Mysie could get her sicht again ! * ex- 
claimed Adam with a light of gladness on his weather- 
beaten face. ‘ My bonnie Mysie ! To tbink that I may 
yet see her walkin’ aboot and lookin’ at the flowers and 
the sky, and a’thing, jist as she was wont to do ! If 
your freend can gie my lassie back her sicht, I’ll be his 
and your debtor for life. We’ll gang to her and see 
what she says.’ 

He walked briskly by Norman’s side for a few 
moments along the mossy path, but when he came in 
sight of the cottage door he stopped with a look of 
dismay. 

‘ But what am I to do aboot my wig and a’ the rest 
o’ the lees I telt her, to keep her frae thinkin’ that I was 
growin’ auld and stiff ? ’ he said. 

4 Your wig ? ’ inquired Norman in a puzzled tone as he 
looked at the bushy red appendage sticking out from 
under the old man’s battered straw hat. 

‘ Ay. I’m an auld fule, I ken, but I couldna bear her 


1 48 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


to ken I was grey, because she was sae prood o’ my hair 
bein' the same colour as her ain ; and sae I was obleeged 
to get a red wig to ease my conscience when she spiered 
if my hair was as bonnie as ever. It was Jessie Borland 
put me up to that dodge.' 

Norman smiled. ‘ How long has she been blind ? ' he 
said as they resumed their walk. 

‘ It's a matter o’ five years since first she began to 
compleen o’ her een being dim ; but it’s aboot twa years 
since she gaed stane-blind. There she stands i’ the porch, 
and Jessie Borland wi’ her.’ 

They drew near and made their presence known 
to Mysie, who turned softly towards them with a 
smile. 

‘The garden is lovely just now,’ said Norman, ‘and 
the breeze is very refreshing after one has come through 
the hot streets.’ 

‘ Ay, Mr. Beid,’ said Mysie ; ‘ it’s a bonnie lown wast- 
lin’ wind. It minds me o’ the Spirit 0’ God — that wind 
that bloweth “ where it listeth.” I kent it was your foot 
on the walk, sir, and I ken noo what like ye look, thanks 
to Jessie here.’ 

Norman turned to Jessie with a smile. He wondered 
a little what manner of man he appeared in those 
shrewd bright eyes, but she shrank behind her blind 
cousin with a painful blush when she found his gaze 
upon her. 

The two girls made an attractive picture as they 
stood within the rustic porch, surrounded by the young 
foliage of the budding pink roses that clambered over 


Blind Mysie . 


1 49 


the trellis-work and sent daring sprays of waving 
green to nod against the soft azure of the sunny sky. 
Mysie stood full in the sunlight, which shone upon 
her placid Madonna-like face and shining auburn 
hair, with a habitual touch of wistfulness in her 
delicate face; while Jessie, standing behind in the shade 
of the porch, looked half-shyly, half-defiantly at the 
minister out of large eyes whose deep blue colour con- 
trasted strangely with her abundant nut-brown tresses 
and poppy bloom. 

‘ Come in, sir,’ said Mysie, hospitably leading the way. 
‘Jessie and I were busy re-potting the resurrection- 
plants/ 

‘ She means begonias/ interrupted Adam, waving Nor- 
man towards the easy-chair by the window, while he 
sank slowly into the depths of his own and spread his 
blue-checked handkerchief over his knees — a proceeding 
which Jessie with a silent laugh noted from her corner 
near the door. 

‘Begonias may be the richt name/ said Mysie with 
a smile ; * but I like to ca’ them resurrection-plants, be- 
cause they dee awa’ at the fa’ o’ the year and come up 
frae their grave when they feel the spring-time cornin’. 
Ilka plant rises frae a wee pink dot and grows leaf by 
leaf, joint by joint, until it fills a’ the window wi’ its 
bonnie leaf and blossom. It teaches me mony a lesson 
when I see it risin’ so slow and sure.’ 

Norman observed with a thrill of sympathetic pity 
that Mysie unconsciously spoke of seeing the plant. 

‘ What does it teach you ? ’ he asked gently. 


Norman Reid, M.A. 


150 

‘First o’ a’ — faith. That’s the wee pink tip that 
ventured aboon the earth ; and ilka leaf is faith’s 
renewal and triumph, until at last the bonnie red 
flowers are oot on the top of the plant — and that’s my 
croon o’ glory.’ 

‘ But the flower will fa’,’ said J essie in a loud whisper. 

‘Ay, lassie; and then my plant speaks to me 0’ the idols 
o’ the flesh that we sae often put in God’s ain place, and 
as the leaves begin to fa’ joint by joint, I say to myself, 
“ Oh, there gangs anither earthly pleasure, there gangs 
anither earthly prop, to mak’ me lean on God alane ; and 
last 0’ a’, the hale plant disappears, and that’s death until 
the resurrection morn.” But there ! I’m preachin’ to you , 
sir, that should preach to us ! ’ said Mysie with a silvery 
laugh. 

‘ I am learning much from your lips,’ replied Norman 
reverently. * You live very near to heaven.’ 

‘Jessie tells me that’s because I am blind. The lassie 
says I liae a better chance o’ being guid than folk that 
can see, but she little kens how often I rebel against the 
will o’ the Lord.’ 

Adam had fallen asleep with his head against the 
wall, for he was wearied with his pleasant out-of-door 
labour, and the tiny kitchen was very quiet as Norman 
leaned thoughtfully back in his chair, wondering inly at 
the refinement and gracious calm of the blind girl, and — 
minister though he was — envying her her simple faith. 

He had frequently dropped in at the' cottage for the 
sake of a talk about holy things with Mysie, and he had 
discovered that her blindness was no darkness to her, 


Blind Mysie . 1 5 1 

but was rather an illumination of faith to all who came 
under the influence of her unfailing cheerfulness, her 
stainless purity, and her sweet charity. 

Such a character as hers was unique in its sacred 
helplessness, and it was no uncommon thing for 
the penitent and sorrowful to come to her for 
sympathy in the troubles and sins from which her 
blindness shielded her. This freedom from the outer 
world of sight gave her 

A heart at leisure from itself, 

To soothe and sympathize ; 

and she imparted to many who had eyes only for 
external things something of the bright unselfishness 
of her own spiritual vision. 

It was a rest to Norman thus to spend an hour in 
the little cottage, and Mysie, who by this time had 
learned to know his ways, understood the long silences 
which were apt to fall upon him. 

But to-day he found Jessie’s presence something of a 
distracting element. He had met her once or twice in 
the cottage, and he had seen her flitting by with the 
stream of workers at meal-hours, for she was a dress- 
maker in a large establishment in Queen Street, and he 
had also observed her wistfully looking up to him from 
her father’s pew in church on the Sabbath day ; but he 
had never been able to exchange with her more than 
the conventional courtesies of greeting in spite of the 
fact that, whenever he encountered the gaze of her large 
blue eyes, he vaguely felt as if she were demanding 
something from him. What was it ? Was it guidance 


152 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


in the narrow way ? Was it help or advice in some 
personal perplexity ? 

Perhaps the wayward girl — for he knew from old 
Adam, her uncle, that she was very wayward — was 
anxious for spiritual instruction. In that case, surely 
her companionship with Mysie would be of benefit to 
her. 

He looked at her as she leaned carelessly against the 
old-fashioned clock, and again he found her eyes fixed 
upon his face. He did not know that to Jessie he was 
the veritable embodiment of the goodness for which 
her soul longed. He would have shrunk, humble and 
abashed, if he had known with what reverent thoughts 
she regarded him ; for the poor girl, ever tossed hither 
and thither by tempestuous feeling, discerned in Norman 
a strength tempered by gentleness, which charmed her 
into gravity and made her eyes shine with the desire 
that that strength might help and that gentleness lead 
her upon the heavenly way. 

If he had known something of her home life he 
would have been able to account for the habitual look 
of dissatisfaction in her face, for Jessie was always more 
or less under the depressing influence of a sense of 
general wrong doing. 

Her mother was a spiritless, delicate woman, engrossed 
with the management of her younger children, and to 
her Jessie with her vigorous life and restless disposition 
was a constant irritation and trial. 

Her elder brother Jim openly scoffed at her impulsive 
escapades and religious longings, while her father treated 


Blind Mysie. 153 

her with a sternness which chilled her warm heart into 
fear. 

Moreover, poor childlike Jessie had the strong meat 
of religion thrust down her throat in the dreary family 
worship conducted by her father, who held strictly 
Calvinistic views anent the doctrines of original sin 
and predestination. He dinned into the ears of his 
children his belief that childhood and youth were one 
long strife of wicked and perverse fighting against 
goodness. 

His son had long ago openly revolted and would 
not attend family worship, but for Jessie no such 
independent action was possible; and so it came about 
that life for her was a series of disheartening back- 
slidings on the much-desired road to God, alternating 
with tearful, passionate vows of impossible goodness. 

It sometimes happened that, after perpetrating some 
not very heinous ‘ sin/ she would approach her father 
with a burst of inconvenient penitence, and the oft- 
repeated cry, ‘ I’ll be a guid lass, father ! only dinna 
look at me like that .’ But, thoroughly repelled by her 
passionate moods, he almost invariably thrust her aside 
with the cold answer, ‘Ye aye say that, Jessie; — “the 
heart is deceitful above all things and desperately 
wicked.” Pray for a better heart if ye w T adna be lost 
through a’ eternity.’ Let us hope that it was his want 
of imagination and not heartlessness that made him send 
one of Christ’s little ones thus empty away. 

But as she had grown older, she had begun in her heart 
to rebel. She was gradually becoming hardened under 


t 54 Norman Reid, M.A. 

her father’s rigid creed, and the consequence was that, 
— as a plant which, being denied its natural aliment, 
instinctively seeks its way through many grotesque and 
unnatural contortions towards the light — she sought 
by various methods of which her father totally disap- 
proved to find food for her hungry soul. 

She attended revival meetings for miles round — to her 
brother Jim’s' great disgust ; and she lived as a rule 
in a morbidly unhealthy atmosphere of religious excite- 
ment. 

But the hour in which she first heard Norman preach 
was to her very memorable. She was attracted, too, 
by his large-hearted, sympathetic personality, and she 
became an eager listener to all he said. She absorbed 
the spiritual aliment of his preaching, and her soul grew 
like a rush in the rainy spring, as with fear and 
trembling hope she took heart again to tread the narrow 
way. 

Norman was quite unconscious of all this as he sat 
in the little cottage kitchen and listened to Mysie’s 
gentle voice. But suddenly Jessie glanced at the clock, 
and, with a shy nod to Norman, slipped up to her 
sleeping uncle, and, giving his cheek a mischievous pinch 
which awoke him with a start, she hastened away. 

Norman was very much amused, for there sat Adam 
ruefully rubbing his cheek, with many apologies for 
falling asleep interspersed with sharp comments upon 
‘ that tricky lassie’s ’ behaviour. But suddenly he 
recollected the object of the minister’s visit, and, sitting 
bolt upright, he anxiously inquired, — 


Blind Mysie, 155 

‘ Hae ye telt her, sir ? * 

Norman thereupon unfolded his project for the 
recovery of Mysie’s sight. 

The blind girl heard him out patiently. Once or 
twice a flush passed over the marble pallor of her face, 
but she did not interrupt his explanation. 

‘ Hae ye naething to say to the minister, Mysie ? * 
asked Adam with some surprise. 

4 1 thank him for his kind thochts o’ me, but I wad 
rather be as I am/ said Mysie sadly. ‘ If it’s the will 
o’ the Lord, that’s to say/ she added. 

4 Oh, lassie ! wad ye no’ like to see ance mair the 
bonnie earth and the sky that ye are sae fond o’, and — 
and your auld uncle’s face ! * cried Adam with a gasp, 
remembering his wig. 

* I do not know if your sight can be restored/ said 
Norman, * but there can be no harm in consulting my 
friend. Will you not think over it for your uncle’s 
sake ? ' * 

‘ You see/ she replied, ‘ I feel so safe and happy in 
my blindness that I’m feared to venture wi’ my een 
open. I’m like as if I was dune wi’ the warld, and 
could gie a’ my thochts to dwellin’ in the licht of God. 
I doot I wadna hae so much 0’ tiuit licht if I could see 
like ither folk ance mair ; for before I was blind I was 
as thochtless and vain a lassie * — 

‘ Na, na, Mysie ! Dinna believe her, sir ! * expostulated 
Adam. * She forgets/ 

‘Thochtless and vain and ta’en up wi’ warldly affec- 
tions/ continued Mysie, gently stroking her uncle’s hand. 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


i5 6 

‘ And besides/ — she paused, and a blush mounted to 
her brow, — * there’s Jim Borland, ye ken, uncle. He 
wad be wantin’ me to wed mair than ever, puir lad, and 
I dinna care to gang back upon that .’ 

‘ Ye dinna need to tak’ him ! I wadna let ye marry 
sic a scoffer ! I cannot understand ye, Mysie ! * cried 
Adam in much distress. Mysie turned her sightless 
gaze upon Norman. 

‘ Ye see, sir/ she said simply, ‘ we lo’e ilk ither, and 
I’m at rest frae a’ thochts of marriage as lang as I am 
blind — my blindness is like a shield set by the hand o’ 
God between Jim and me, for if I could see again — oh, 
I ken I wad be tempted to marry him, and so dishonour 
my faith ! As long as I am blind, I can pray wi’ an 
undivided heart for his conversion. That’s my hidden 
hope, sir — Jim’s conversion — and I hae kept it in my 
prayers mony and mony a day. But if ance I saw him 
— I fear, I fear that the auld glamour o’ the carnal ee 
wad come ower me and I wad forget his soul’s ’salvation 
first o’ a’.’ 

‘ But your influence would still be upon him for 
good ? ’ said Norman with emotion, while Adam listened 
with speechless astonishment. 

‘ Yes ; but it wadna be the same. As lang as I am 
blind I ken that I hae power wi’ God ; but maybe I 
wad lose it if I saw wi’ warldly een. But I’ll say nae 
mair until I have spiered God’s will in the matter/ 
said Mysie, rising from her chair and leaving the 
kitchen to hide her emotion. 

Norman stayed a few minutes to comfort Adam, who 


Blind Mysie . 157 

was in great distress at the unexpected manner in which 
Mysie had received the minister’s proposal. He had an 
idea that Jim Borland was at the bottom of it, but 
Mysie’s frame of mind was a most entire and enig- 
matical surprise to him. 

Norman had much food for thought as he walked 
along the garden path, dusky and sweet with over- * 
hanging lilacs. The blood tingled into his cheek as he 
felt with shame how much higher were the blind girl’s 
motives than his. He would have his love at any cost ; 
he thought of it apart from any higher consideration 
than that of the natural longing to possess the beloved. 
Ah, through what painful channels of purifying sorrow 
his love had yet to go ! Such were his thoughts as he 
retraced his steps towards the town for the purpose of 
finishing his visitation in the squalid district which he had 
left but an hour ago in a sudden access of despair. But 
now, in the strength which he had gained in the cottage 
that enshrined saintly Mysie, he went forth once more 
to do battle against sin and suffering. 

He paused on the steps of the post-office to allow a 
contingent of the Salvation Army — which was strong in 
Otterton — to file past. 

On the processionists came, marching briskly with 
hearty singing and waving banners. 

At the Cross, at the Cross, 

Where I first saw the light, 

And the burden of my heart rolled away, 

It was there by faith 
I received my sight, 

And now I am happy all the day ! 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


158 

So they sang with abundant energy, and, as Norman 
stood looking down upon the procession, suddenly from 
the midst of the singers there flashed upon his vision a 
girlish face uplifted and white with religious exaltation. 
It was the face of Jessie Borland, and her clear soprano 
rang high above the coarser voices in the crowd as she 
• passed on and disappeared. 




CHAPTER XVI. 

LOVE BIDES ITS TIME. 

Oh that it were possible, 

After long grief and pain, 

To find the arms of my true love 
About me once again 1 Tennyson. 

ND how had Clara Porteous been faring all 
through the summer days ? 

It is true that the strain and stress of her 
life in Edinburgh had left an indelible impres- 
sion upon her, and that a chance meeting with Norman 
had power to awaken the old pain which ever slumbered 
at her heart ; but still the present was very sw r eet to her 
weary spirit, and she appreciated to the full this time 
of rest and fallow leisure. 

By-and-bye, she promised to herself in those quiet 
hours when the restless inner voice called to her to * be 
up and doing/ she would resume her life-work ; and in 
the meantime her strength slowly returned and hope 
revived under the influence of the glowing June weather. 
In the luxurious ease of her uncle’s house she blossomed 
out into new beauty, and gradually she regained some- 
thing of the sprightliness characteristic of energetic 
14 



160 Norman Reid, M.A. 

youth. Her pale face took a faint and lovely tint from 
the prodigal crimson of the roses that grew so bountifully 
in the garden which sloped down to the swift-flowing 
Otter, and altogether Clara was a changed being from 
the pale, sad girl-student we knew in Edinburgh. 

The quiet routine of the somewhat conventional 
mansion was very pleasing to her order-loving nature, 
so long compelled to participate in the makeshifts of her 
father’s rooms, and she delighted in re-arranging the 
massive furniture into homelier grouping and in filling 
every nook of the pleasant chambers with sweet-scented, 
many-coloured posies. 

Her uncle looked quietly on with well-pleased eyes and 
much silent self-congratulation. How pretty his niece 
had become of late — in fact, since she had taken up her 
abode under his roof ! And how much more home- 
like and pleasing the house had grown since her 
coming! This was evidently the place for her. She 
must give up that absurd idea of earning her living by 
painting pictures. If she would paint, why, she should 
have a studio built for her own use at the back of the 
house, and she could paint there in ladylike leisure — 
certainly not for bread ! And thus he wandered off 
into pleasant dreams of the future, which, however, he 
kept to himself in the meantime, for he shrewdly con- 
jectured that Clara, having a will of her own, might 
demur to his projects ; it would be time enough to 
broach the matter when her affections had woven them- 
selves more closely about him and his possessions. 

But the days were not all passed by Clara in 


Love bides its Time. 161 

dreamful ease. She was occasionally restless and dis- 
satisfied with herself because of her delight in the 
unstinted luxury of her present life. At these times 
she recalled the cramping cares and the soaring ambitions 
of her past with a sigh of regret for the loss of the love 
which had thrown a glamour over all. 

Now she knew — all too late — that she had missed her 
best chance of usefulness and of happiness on the day 
when she had sent Norman away ; now she realised how 
much she had been influenced by his love, how much 
of inward growth she owed to his companionship, how 
cheaply she had held his unwearying devotion ; and she 
would gladly have gone back to the old life of poverty, 
if by doing so she could have found love waiting to greet 
her there. 

She saw Norman but seldom now, and never to speak 
to alone. She sometimes wondered if, in spite of his 
parting protestation that he would always love her, he 
had forgotten the past with its tender mutual memories, 
for he seemed so engrossed with his arduous church- 
work, and he so silently and habitually ignored the 
old times, that it looked as if he had no leisure and 
no desire to think of her. She did not know how 
much her presence in church on the Sabbath day 
influenced Norman even in the midst of his most 
sacred duties. His love was as sacred to him as his 
religion, and often he was thankful for the sweet 
and potent encouragement which her grave uplifted 
face brought him as he glanced towards Mr. Morgan’s 
pew, where she sat in her cool white summer gown 


162 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


and her dainty bonnet with its ribbons of black, 
looking, he thought, like a saint in her fair maiden 
purity. 

One June day, when the air was heavy with the 
odours from the new-mown hay and the bean-fields that 
lay along the banks of the Otter, winding like a silver 
belt beneath the cool shade of the alders whose foliage 
danced a quaint shadow - dance upon the glittering 
surface of the water, Clara was walking by the stream 
when she saw Norman crossing the iron bridge opposite 
her uncle's house. 

He proceeded to walk down the stream towards 
her, although she saw that as yet he was unobservant 
of her proximity, for his head was bent and he 
swung his staff absently about, as if he were deep in 
thought. 

He had come out, indeed, to think over his next 
Sabbath sermon, for he loved to study amid the 
calm which pervades nature’s green seclusions, and 
he found her liberal spaces more conducive to thought 
than the confined, book - lined walls of the Manse 
library. 

He was close upon Clara when he became 
aware of her presence, and his face flushed for a 
moment as he raised his hat and calmly extended his 
hand. 

A sudden tremor shook her voice as she wished him 
‘good afternoon; but there was no sign of emotion in 
his voice as he returned her greeting. 

He was fast learning his lesson on the wisdom of 


Love bides its Time . 163 

patience and self-restraint, and his firm belief that he 
would ultimately win Clara for his wife gave him an 
air of serenity and ease which she mistook for cold- 
ness. She would fain have passed by, but he detained 
her. 

‘ I am glad that we have met,’ he said. ‘ I wanted 
to tell you that you need not fear any reference to the 
past from me. I would like you to feel quite sure of 
that. Let us meet at ease, only let me be your friend, 
since that is all I may ask. Shall it be so ? * He paused 
and looked into her downcast face. Was she quite con- 
tent, he wondered, that they two should be merely 
friends ? 

* Thank you ; that will be best/ she answered in a low 
voice, while her heart whispered to her the bitter words, 
* Ah, he has ceased to love you ! ’ 

‘ I am glad to find you still at Otterbank/ said 
Norman, — * glad to think that you have at last a little 
time of quietness and freedom from care. Do you still 
cherish by the banks of the Otter your old dream of 
fame ? This lovely spot must be an inspiration to 
you, lam sure. I expect great things from you yet.’ 
Little did he think how cruelly these words stung 
her ! 

* I am surprised to find that you still retain any faith 
in me/ she said with a look of pain in her brown eyes, 
which were fixed upon the distant Arran hills, half-con- 
cealed by the soft haze that tempered the sunny blue 
sky. ‘ And, moreover, I am beginning to realise — as you 
told me I should — that fame for me may be a very 


164 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


empty and barren thing.’ Her voice faltered in spite of 
her efforts to keep it steady. 

Norman flushed to the brow and then grew pale. It 
was difficult for him to witness her emotion and resist 
his impulse to offer her his love once more. He held 
his peace, for there was danger in the only words he 
could have spoken. It would be unsafe to test her heart 
yet — he must wait a little longer. He turned with her 
as she made a movement to go, and they walked silently 
together in the direction of Otterbank House, the residence 
of Mr. Morgan. 

It was one of those divine June days in which even 
the most active of men may have passing desires for the 
green solitudes and leisure of nature, and think amid 
the toil and moil of life of the primitive delight of lying 
supine beneath the undulant boughs of some leafy tree, 
listening to the dreamy stir of the woodlands ; and even 
the hard-working Otter, stealing forth from the smoky 
haze of the busy town, participated in the beauty and 
luxuriant life of the summer. 

It flowed on in gentle curves, half-hidden in places 
by tall willow-herbs and creamy meadow-sweet, and the 
emerald banks were tapestried by the blossoms dear to 
lovers — the lovely forget-me-nots which had stolen their 
tints from the summer sky. Countless daisies spangled 
the grass and mingled with the golden buttercups, whose 
blonde enamel contrasted so richly with the gipsy gold 
of the tall dock-sorrel, over which hovered bronze and 
yellow butterflies, while dancing companies of midges 
gyrated madly above the rippling water. How happy 


Love bides its Time. 165 

ought to be the lovers who wandered there ! But they 
were not happy, for Norman strode silently onward, while 
Clara with difficulty restrained her tears. After a little 
she broke the silence. 

* I would not like you to think that I have 
forgotten my purpose — my art — although I have so 
strangely found a peaceful home and an uncle’s love ; 
only I am thankful to rest for a while/ she 
said. 

‘Yes, yes / replied Norman. ‘You must rest. There 
is time enough to think of other things.’ 

‘ But I feel that it is due to myself that I should 
explain why I am here.’ 

‘ No ; I understand you very well. To come here was 
the best, the only thing you could do.’ 

* Do not mistake me ! ’ she interrupted with a sharp 
ring in her voice. ‘ I came here because I failed. I 
could not struggle alone, and my health gave way. I 
failed where I thought I would be strong — and so I came 
here. I thought that after a period of rest I would 
return to my work. Do not imagine that I came here 
because I desired to live at ease, or — or for any other 
reason.’ 

‘ Clara ! ’ exclaimed Norman ; * why do you thus 
wrong yourself and me ? I will not allow you to speak 
in such a manner ! ’ 

Under the stress of old emotions he was his old 
imperious self once more, and Clara acknowledged it 
with a beating heart. 

‘ I did not mean to annoy you — only to let you 


1 66 


Norman Reid y M.A. 


know/ she faltered with a sob, — ‘ to let you know that 
after a time I thought that, since the old barriers were 
removed, I might pursue my art steadily ; but the days 
drift past, and still I do not feel inclined for work. I 
have no joy in the thought of my work — the springs of 
action seem broken ; but I will work ! Ah, do not think 
that I have forgotten my art, only just now I do not 
seem to see things so clearly as of old. I wish to tell 
you all this, that you may understand why’ — 

He lifted his hand to stop her confession. ‘ I under- 
stand, I understand ! ’ he cried as they paused in farewell 
at the iron bridge opposite Otterbank House. * I trust 
you in everything. Be content to rest awhile, and 
your former impulse to work will return.’ He took 
her hand. Truly he understood better than Clara her- 
self what was amiss in her life ; but not yet would 
he speak. 

‘We will part here/ he said. ‘I am glad that 
we have met to-day. I am glad for your sake that 
you have found such a pleasant resting - place as 
your uncle’s home. It is a blessed thing to be loved 
and cared for as he will love and care for you. 
Good-day.’ 

Her face was averted, or she would have seen the 
old strong love leap up for a moment into his eyes. 
She heard only the calm words of courteous inte- 
rest, and she shook hands and turned away sick at 
heart. 

‘ He has ceased to love me ! He has ceased to love 
me ! ’ she said within herself in a tumult of pain. But 


Love bides its Time. 


167 


Norman strode across the bridge toward the Manse with 
a clang almost of triumph in his steps as he communed 
with his heart ; for his words were, * She loves me still ! 
She loves me still ! Have patience, oh my heart — she 
loves me still ! * 

15 




CHAPTER XYIL 

jim’s dilemma. 

Souls are dangerous things to carry straight 
Through all the spilt saltpetre of the world. 

E. B. Browning. 

NE evening, still in the month of June, Jim 
Borland took his way towards the little cottage 
which held his heart’s dearest treasure. 

The sun, which was setting behind a hank 
of silver-lined clouds, threw broad shafts of radiance down 
into the garden, thereby transforming it into an Eden 
with paths leading straight up into the as yet unbarred 
heavens. 

Like Eden, too, the garden was sweet with fragrance 
and colour, for Mysie’s rose-bushes, ablush with bursting 
buds, sent forth a delicious incense to mingle with the 
subtle odours stealing forth from the various flowers to 
greet the falling dew. 

The vesper songs of merle and mavis throbbed melo- 
diously through the shady silence, and in the fields 
beyond the garden their summer tenants, the larks, had 

commenced their spiral downward flight, singing the 

168 



Jims Dilemma . 169 

while with the eager and spasmodic impatience of glad 
wanderers homeward-hound. 

Mysie was sitting in the honeysuckle porch, and 
through the airy foliage climbing over the rustic wood- 
work fell the slanting rays of the sun upon her sweet 
face, while her soft blind eyes were raised to the sky as 
if they dimly divined the beauty of the fair outer world. 
Her hands were folded quietly on her apron of spotless 
white and a song of gratitude was on her lips : — 

Father, I know that all my life 
Is portioned out by Thee, 

And the trials that are siire to come 
I do not fear to see ; 

But I ask Thee for a present mind, 

Intent on serving Thee. 

Thus she sang, raising her devout human voice to 
perfect the adoration ascending to the Creator in a silent 
harmony of colour and fragrance from the flowers, and 
finding its audible expression in the mellow songs of the 
untiring birds. 

Jim Borland, who was coming along the garden path, 
heard her singing, and the low- toned, sympathetic voice 
went straight to his heart. Involuntarily he doffed his 
cap, and, stepping off the gravel on to the velvet turf 
that bordered the walk, he paused motionless, with a 
feeling that the place whereon he stood was holy ground, 
and himself in the earthly presence of a soul visibly 
refining itself for the kingdom of heaven. 

He gazed reverently at the sweet, intent face of his 
blind sweetheart, feeling — with a sinking heart, poor 
fellow ! — how far beyond his love Mysie’ s inner vision 


1 70 Norman Reid ) M.A. 

had carried her ; for her countenance, always delicate in 
its beauty, was now luminous with the spiritual meaning 
of the hymn that had borne her to the throne of 
God. 

Jim himself was worth looking at as he stood listening 
while Mysie proceeded with her singing. One felt that 
the arrested action and patience of his present attitude 
was not the expression of a mood habitual to him, for 
there was an air of almost ferocious impulsiveness in his 
lithe form and sharp face that suggested something of 
the graceful vigour and unnatural calm of a wild 
animal whose native impulse was to spring and to 
destroy. 

He was not of quite the common type of working 
men, although in their ranks such specimens of men are 
more likely to be found than in any other. Mentally 
he was in a transition stage; speculative, like many 
of his class, he yet carried his speculations to con- 
clusions which were warranted neither by a full know- 
ledge nor by the true logic of the subjects engaging 
his thoughts. His crude Socialism, for instance, had 
only engendered in his mind a reckless and ignorant 
tendency to free-thinking, which he displayed so ostenta- 
tiously as to make for himself many enemies. 

His thought, indeed, was neither deep nor thorough ; 
he had abundant natural talent, but he was continually 
being carried away by half-digested ideas, which were 
but the froth and fermentation of restless ignorance — 
redeemed from conceit, however, by an equally restless 
craving for knowledge. 


J ims Dilevima . 1 7 1 

Whether the churning process going on in Jim’s mind 
would ultimately settle into solid thoughtfulness and 
mature conviction was doubtful, for his recklessness of 
consequences and his want of self-control too often 
defeated his most carefully - considered plans. Pro- 
bably age and dear - bought experience alone would 
mellow the original harshness and crudeness of his 
character. 

In the meantime, he was a very comely youth as he 
stood in the sunny garden in the bloom of his early 
manhood. The level sunbeams, touching his thin, 
clear-cut face, tried in vain to quench the keen light 
of his large grey eyes and lost themselves at last 
in the bright confusion of his auburn hair, which 
stood up in a wave of warm colour from his broad 
and swarthy brow ; and his after- work suit of pilot- 
blue displayed his tall and well-knit figure to much 
advantage. 

Outwardly, therefore, Jim was well worth any woman’s 
love, and Mysie’s pathetic reference to the ‘ glamour o’ 
the carnal e’e ’ is easily intelligible, for the blind girl felt 
convinced that nothing but her blindness shielded her 
from, yielding to his desire for marriage — a marriage 
which her intense but literal faith turned into a snare of 
the devil. 

Inwardly Jim greatly needed the persevering courage 
and strength of purpose with which the love of every 
woman worthy of the name can endow — for a time at 
least — the man she loves. Alas ! woman’s love is 
limited by lack of faith in its own ideal ; but in spite 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


1 7 2 

of that it is second only in power to the love of that 
God whose name is Love. 

Now, Jim had come to Mysie with a problem that 
demanded solution. He was in a dilemma, and he had 
sought his sweetheart with a sort of forlorn hope that 
she, being shut out from the world and impervious to 
the worldly considerations of expediency which so often 
determine men’s actions, might see more clearly than he 
could the proper course for him to take. 

I would not have the restless will 
That hurries to and fro, 

Seeking for some great thing to do, 

Or secret thing to know. 

I would be treated as a child, 

And guided where I go, 

sang Mysie, unaware of a listener to whose heart the 
words of her hymn sent a chill which was half contempt 
for the humble-minded Christianity expressed in the 
poem and half self-pity for his spiritual remoteness from 
herself, for Jim was all too conscious that his was a 
restless will, ever on the outlook for * some secret thing 
to know.’ 

He moved his feet impatiently, and at the sound 
Mysie stopped singing and turned her face apprehensively 
towards him. The suddenness of the movement con- 
fused her, for she was easily startled by unexplain- 
able noises, as she had not that exquisite nicety in 
the sense of hearing which is the invariable compensa- 
tion for the want of sight given to such as are born 
blind. 

‘ Don’t be alarmed, Mysie ! * Jim hastened to say, 


*73 


Jims Dilemma. 

advancing to meet her ; and she smiled at the sound of 
his voice/while he took heart again when he saw the 
swift blush that rose to her cheek. 

He took her hand, and they walked together into the 
cottage, where Mysie at once began to spread the table 
for supper, moving about with a deft gracefulness 
wonderful to see in one bereft of sight. 

‘ I’m not sure that I agree with the invalid sentiments 
of that hymn you were singing, Mysie,’ said Jim, lying 
back in Adam’s arm-chair, with his eyes upon her as she 
moved silently about the kitchen. * It’s a poor sort of 
spirit that would be “ treated as a child, and guided 
where it goes.” I’ve had too much of that sort of 
leading-string religion to put up with from my father; 
and besides it’s natural for some folk to be “ seeking for 
some great thing to do.” How would the world get 
along unless it was so ? Ho, no, lass ; your hymn won’t 
do for me. It may do very well for folk that are ailing, 
or for women, or even for folk that have had their fling, 
or ’ — 

‘ Or folk that’s blind — like me ! ’ interrupted Mysie 
without any bitterness. ‘ So be it ; but there are ither 
holy words that wad suit you, Jim.’ 

‘ Don’t think that I meant to hurt you, Mysie ! * cried 
he. 'If all religious folk were like you, lass, there 
would be some hope for this world. But I’ll own that 
the reason I object to your hymn to-night is that I 
am “seeking for some great thing to do,” and, as I’m 
not very sure whether it’s right or wrong, I came to 
you to tell me.’ 


174 Norman Reid , M.A . 

Mysie crossed over to the window and sat down to her 
knitting. 

‘ Weel, lad, what is it ? ’ she said with a smile. 4 But 
ye never tak * my advice, ye ken ! ’ 

'Well, you see, Mysie, Morgan has offered me a 
hundred pounds for that machine of mine, and I have 
got to let him know if I accept his offer in three weeks. 
But I’ve been thinking a lot while I was making the 
machine ’ — 

‘ Yes ? * interrogated Mysie as Jim hesitated. 

* And I am not sure now whether I should be doing 
right to sell it to Morgan, because, you see, it is bound to 
supersede labour to some extent ; and although I thought 
that a grand thing at first, it looked different when I 
began to consider that if I gave it to Morgan I would be 
taking the bread out of the mouths of the men I know. 
There’s Sanny Elshender, for instance, that keeps his 
dead sister’s weans, and Bab Beyburn that has a big 
family and a delicate wife to provide for, and there’s 
Gavin Kerr, and Morrison, and Muir, — they would 
all get the bag if Morgan takes over my machine — 
they and many more ; and in the meantime nobody 
but myself would get any advantage, though in the 
long-run it would pay Morgan fifty times over to 
buy it.’ 

‘ Dear, dear ! * said Mysie. ‘ What for didna ye think 
o’ a’ that before, Jim V 

‘ Well, you see the machine can do the work better 
and cheaper and quicker than can be done by manual 
laoour, and besides, I was carried away by the cleverness 


i75 


Jims Dilemma . 

of the thing/ said Jim with a blush. * I thought it a 
capital idea and a most ingenious contrivance ; and the 
thing seemed to possess me until I was forced to work 
it out. Day and night I wrought at it, and I couldn’t 
rest until it was finished. But as I wrought and saw 
the machine growing under my hand, the thoughts that 
I told you of grew too ; and then the mischief is that I 
began to read books on Socialism, of which I had heard 
something in America. You don’t know anything about 
that, but it would give the working men a fairer share of 
the produce of their labour ; and then after I began to 
speak to the men on the subject, they taunted me about 
this machine.’ 

‘ What made ye speak to the men ? ’ inquired Mysie 
in mild surprise. 

‘ I couldn’t help it. The idea took such a hold of me, 
you see ; and when the men taunted me I was dumb. I 
saw at once that I wasn’t consistent in egging them on 
to better themselves and at the same time inventing and 
disposing of machinery.’ 

‘Weel, Jim, just dinna sell the machine. It’s an 
awfu’ thing to tak’ the bread oot o’ bairnies’ mou’s,’ said 
Mysie, placidly knitting. 

‘But, Mysie,’ stammered Jim, ‘think of getting a 
hundred pounds ! And not only that, but it is a splendid 
opening for me. Why, I may become a manager or even 
a master myself!’ Jim stopped short, startled and 
rueful. ‘ Hullo ! ’ he cried with a whistle ; ‘ the mischief 
is out ! My sympathies are with the masters after all ! 
I was mad enough when old Hughie Drennan told me 


i 7 6 Norman Reid \ M.A. 

so. Out of my own mouth am I condemned, Mysie 
lass ! * 

But she saw nothing at all singular in Jim’s confession 
or in his forecast of his future. 

‘ Of course you’ll be a maister some day,’ she said with 
a bright smile. ‘ Hoo can it be ony ither wi’ a lad like 
you ? I dinna think ye ken very weel what ye wad be 
at, Jim ; or else I dinna understand enough aboot the 
matter to advise ye.’ 

‘It stands like this, Mysie: I would like to better 
the class I belong to and to help them to better 
themselves, for they don’t get fair play in Morgan’s 
foundry ; and, on the other hand, they would think it 
all tall talk and have a right to turn against me if 
with these sentiments I introduced more machinery into 
the work.’ 

‘ Yerra weel, lad ; dinna sell your machine. Ye’ll get 
on withoot it, I’se warrant.’ 

‘ But don’t you see, Mysie, that if I refuse to sell it 
somebody is sure to come forward with something similar, 
and Morgan is so keen after anything in that line that he 
is sure to buy it, and so, after all, the men will get the 
bag!’ 

‘Weel, but their dismissal winna lie on your con- 
science.’ 

* No ; but think of the influence I should gain 
in the town if I became known as an inventor, and 
the position I might aspire to, and the money I would 
make ! * 

‘ Oh, laddie,’ cried Mysie with a laugh, ‘ dinna speak 


Jims Dilemma, 177 

as if ye were tryin’ to convince me. It’s yoursel’ that 
maun settle the matter.’ 

‘ But, Mysie, I would like you to see the difficulty. 
It’s true that I would fain be a leader among the work- 
men, but it is also true that to be that I must give up 
my own prospects. And oh, Mysie, think of all I could 
give you when you are my wife ’ — 

She raised her hand to stop the impetuous words. 

‘Leave that oot 0’ the question, Jim, and settle the 
matter with your conscience. I dinna think I will ever 
be your wife — no’ even if I win back my sicht,’ said she 
in a low voice. 

Jim almost forgot his own perplexity in his sur- 
prise at her words. He stared at her in astonish- 
ment. 

‘Mr. Reid has been here,’ she said, ‘and he has a 
friend in Edinburgh — a doctor that understands a* aboot 
the een, and he’s cornin’ to spend a few weeks at the 
Manse, and the minister wants me to let him examine 
my een, for he fancies my sicht may be restored. He’s 
cornin’ next week.’ 

‘ Why, Mysie, that’s grand news ! If you get back 
your sight we could get married at once ! * 

‘ But ye forget that I have just telt ye I canna be 
your wife,’ said Mysie, turning very pale. ‘ I wad rather 
remain blind, Jim, than put the barrier o* sicht between 
you an’ me.’ 

‘ You are dreaming, Mysie ! It’s your blindness that’s 
the only barrier between us — unless you mean that you 
do not love me any longer.’ 


i 7 8 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


* Na, lad ; I lo’e ye as weel as ever. What I mean is 
that if I win back my sicht it will be a sad day for you 
an’ me ; for as lang as I am blind I dinna need to set 
my heart on marriage, but if ance I saw ! — Oh, Jim, I 
canna marry an unbeliever, ane that scoffs at a’ I hold 
dear and sacred. Ye dinna care for religion, an* ye never 
gang to the kirk/ said Mysie with tears in her poor blind 
eyes. * An’ the Bible says, “ Be ye not unequally yoked 
together with unbelievers.” * 

Jim sat very straight and silent in his chair, with his 
hands plunged into his pockets, and his face fixed sternly 
on the opposite wall. He despaired of gaining Mysie’s 
toleration for his unbelief, because, as lie well knew, her 
piety was the undeniable outcome of a blissful incapacity 
for doubt and a consequent ignorance of the difficulties 
of belief. She had grasped the essential truths of 
Christianity through her felt need of and love for a 
personal Saviour. 

Much of her gentle power lay in this ignorance and 
limitation. She did not feel the necessity which Jim 
felt for grappling with religious problems, for her instinct 
was to believe, while his was to doubt, all that was 
taught in the Church ; his intellect dominated his heart, 
and he could take nothing for granted. 

‘ Do you think it will make me any better if you give 
me up V he said at last with bitterness. 

‘ I canna think that that wad keep ye aff the richt 
road,’ said Mysie earnestly. ‘ Only I wish that God 
wad just let me bide blind a’ my days. My strength 
lies in my blindness, an’ I can pray for your repent- 


Jim's Dilemma . 179 

ance better blind/ The pathos of her words touched 
him. 

* Look here, Mysie,’ he said firmly, * don’t delude your- 
self with the idea that I will ever turn out a sancti- 
monious humbug like my father. Don’t you see that I 
cannot become religious as you would like ? I wish that 
I could get you to understand how I detest all that cant 
about religion that goes on at home. I am sick of it. 
I don’t say that you are insincere, but my father, and 
Morgan, and every minister I ever came to close quarters 
with, are just Pharisees and hypocrites. Women may be 
different. Keligion was made for them. There’s Jessie, 
she’s desperately in earnest over her ridiculous revivals, 
and my mother, I know ’ — Jim paused with a lump in 
his throat — ‘ and you are good, lass, so it must be natural 
for women to be religious. It doesn’t improve men, as 
far as I have seen. Good gracious ! just fancy a strong 
young fellow like me going snivelling about like an old 
wife and crying that folk must repent and save themselves 
from what they call Hell, and imploring them to sneak 
into another place they are pleased to call Heaven ! 
Bah ! I prefer to do my work here in an honest fashion 
and get all the good I can out of this world — it’s good 
enough for me. Think of the millions of human beings, 
one just as good as another, that never heard of this 
“ salvation.” There’s too many of us to expect individual 
attention, it seems to me, so we must just do what we 
can for ourselves and help each other if we’ve a mind to. 
If God is what you say, Mysie, I can trust Him for the 
rest.’ 


i8o 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


She was accustomed to Jim’s tirades against religion ; 
his language had ceased to shock her, and now she 
returned to the charge with gentle persistence. 

* If ye could only believe that God is our Heavenly 
Father, Jim, ye wad understand things better. God is 
love/ said she with touching earnestness, forgetting that 
over his unenlightened mind and thwarted filial affection 
the beautiful image of the Fatherhood of God had no 
power. 

‘ God is justice — I believe that at any rate ! He won’t 
stand scamped work of any sort, even if folk neglect it 
for the sake of preaching repentance — as my father does. 
As you sin , you suffer — that’s nature’s creed, and it’s 
mine too !’ cried Jim with a flush of enthusiasm. ‘And 
as for congratulating myself, like my father and his kind, 
on being saved while others perish, I wouldn’t have 
that salvation at any price ! My father’s God is not my 
God ! ’ cried Jim hotly, getting up and striding about 
the tiny kitchen in his wrath. 

‘Jim,’ said Mysie with a smile that was divine in its 
forbearance and loving-kindness because it was the reflex 
of her likeness to the Christ she adored, ‘ I am sure that 
God will lead ye stracht to Himsel’ — in His ain way 
and in His ain time. I’m no’ clever like you, an’ I 
canna argue aboot my faith, but I believe that ye shall 
yet win into the Kingdom. In His ain way He leads 
us a’.’ 

But Jim would not listen to her gentle words. 

‘You need not delude yourself, Mysie, with the fancy 
that I shall ever accept your creed. It is impossible. 


Jim's Dilemma . 181 

I doubt, dear lass, that all is over between you and me 
if you will not take me as I am. I always knew that 
you were too good for me/ said he with a break in his 
voice. 

‘ Dear Jim, I’ll pray that the Spirit may be gracious 
to you, for oh, lad, lad ! I wad fain marry ye i ' she 
cried, her woman’s heart getting the ascendency. ‘ Oh, 
Jim, I will pray for the day to come when you can 
say ’ — 

He interrupted her petulantly. 

‘ Say ! oh, I could easily say all you desire ; but how 
do you know that I would be honest when I have so 
much at stake ? ’ he cried. 

* I trust ye. Ye canna be untrue/ said she simply, 
and Jim’s sore heart felt softer at her gentle words of 
faith in him. 

* Oh, Mysie, you do not feel this as I do. You have 
the happiness of being able to trust although you cannot 
understand/ he said sadly. 

‘ I sometimes think I am blest abune the lave/ she 
replied wistfully, ‘ especially when I think that the Lord 
took awa’ my sicht that I might aye dwell in His licht. 
It’s waur for you, Jim, I alloo, for you are compelled to 
value the things ye can see. Oh, Jim, believe me, 
earthly vision, bonnie though it is, looks through a fog 
that hides the divine glory. It’s you that’s blind and it’s 
me that sees — for God takes special charge ower the een 
o’ the blind, and He cleanses them frae the mire o’ the 
warld, so that they may see the true licht that dwells 
around HimselV 


82 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


Mysie’s heart-felt religion was as wings carrying her 
into regions of exalted feeling from which Jim felt that 
he was debarred, and he rose to depart, anguished 
with the thought that he could never enter with his 
beloved into that holy of holies where she habitually 
dwelt. 




CHAPTER XVIII. 

AN EVENING RENCONTRE. 

Ah, when shall all men’s good 
Be each man’s rule, and universal Peace 
Lie like a shaft of light across the land f 

Tennyson. 

HE last pale remnant of rosy colour still 
lingered in the western horizon, and in the 
blue dome a few faint stars were twinkling 
round the crescent of the young moon, while the 
twilight expanse of southern sky was alternately flushed 
and darkened by the pulsations of the ruddy glare from 
the furnaces of the neighbouring village of Heckford. 

But as Jim Borland left the cottage he was too intent 
on his own thoughts to note any of these outward signs 
that 'the heavens were telling the glory of God.’ 
Nature had nothing to say to him. Indeed, he was 
feeling so out of tune with all the world that he closed 
the garden gate with an emphasis suspiciously akin to a 
bang ; nor did it improve his temper to remember that 
Mysie from the cottage hearth would hear and attribute 
the sound to its true cause. 

Jim was angry not only with things in general — it was 



184 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


not at all unusual for him to waste much superfluous 
energy in that direction — but with himself,' with Mysie, 
and, in short, with all the unbendingly iron facts of life, 
which refused to suit themselves to his special require- 
ments. ‘ The times were out of joint ’ with him, and he 
felt rather sick of such a contrary world. He couldn’t 
adapt his square person to the round hole of proverbial 
fame; and now he strode along in the peaceful sumrnei 
evening with a very tumult of unrest in his breast. He 
pulled his cap morosely over his eyes and plunged his 
hands deep into his pockets as vague, rebellious thoughts 
chased each other through his mind. He thought of 
giving up the puzzle of life in the old country altogether, 
and of going off once more to America to push his 
fortune. Why should he stay at Otterton, since Mysie 
had made it so abundantly clear that she would have 
nothing to do with him, and since his fellow- work men 
derided his efforts on their behalf ? 

America was the very country for a working man 
who could use hands and brains to some purpose, as Jim 
flattered himself he could, and his restless nature longed 
for the wider sphere and renewed opportunities which 
that large country would give him. 

Otterton — said Jim contemptuously to himself — was 
a paltry, local affair, and no town in the old country, for 
that part, was much better. The labour market was 
overstocked, wages were next to nothing at all, and a 
man was looked at with suspicion and jealousy if he 
tried to get out of the rut of old customs — in fact, the 
whole country swarmed with prejudice and humbug of 


An Evening Rencontre . 1 85 

every description ! What chance had a young fellow like 
himself to get on comfortably ? He would cut the 
whole concern, and perhaps — perhaps he would learn to 
forget Mysie when he was far away. He dashed his 
hand impatiently across his eyes wherein lurked a 
suspicious moisture, and crossed the dewy fields to reach 
the Waterside. 

Ah, if he could be sure of forgetting Mysie, he might 
get on well enough ; but at the thought there uprose 
before his mental vision the gentle image of his blind 
sweetheart, endowed with all the sacred influence of love 
to move him, and as he remembered all the sweet 
counsel, the earnest affection, the matchless honesty 
which had so often guided him, he knew that never 
could he forget her — never; for then would lie forget 
purity and truth and all that exalted a man above the 
level of the brute. 

Then his thoughts wandered off to his invention. If 
he could only make up his mind about that ! And if he 
could see a way, compatible with honesty, of finding 
some reality, some personal reality, in that religion which 
Mysie loved, then he could become a new man and she 
would marry him. 

But here his musings came to an abrupt termination, 
for, as he swung somewhat carelessly round the corner of 
the iron bridge spanning thu Otter, he came sharply 
against Norman, who was leaning upon the gleaming 
parapet, smoking a meditative pipe and evidently 
absorbed in thought. 

Jim’s first impulse was to pass on with an ungracious 


i86 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


apology, but suddenly he remembered that to the 
minister’s kind interest Mysie would in all probability 
owe the recovery of her sight. 

He stood still, therefore, and, looking at Norman with 
an air half-defiant, half-conciliatory, he said, — 

‘ Mysie Auld has just been telling me, sir, that you 
think there is a chance of her recovering her sight/ 

‘Yes, I hope there is/ replied Norman with a kindly 
smile. ‘Won’t you take a stroll with me a little way 
down-stream ? It is a lovely evening, and I should like 
to have a talk with you/ 

Jim’s face flushed high, but he nodded without speak- 
ing, and, to his shamefaced surprise, he found himself 
walking alongside of his pet aversion — a minister ! 
But there was that in this particular minister’s face 
which was altogether independent of any outward signs 
of his profession — a look of grave, strong kindness, of 
consecration almost, which proclaimed him to be a veri- 
table helper of men, a genuine high priest of humanity, 
ordained by nature to the office which would still have 
been his although he had never worn the garb of a 
minister of Christ. Thank God that there are such 
born priests and brothers of struggling men, and may 
you and I meet one of their noble number in the dark 
hours of our extremest conflicts ! 

Ere long Jim Borland found himself laying bare the 
drama of his life to Norman. All his love troubles, his 
perplexities regarding his invention, his general dissatis- 
faction with the world, were poured into the young 
minister’s sympathetic ear. 


A 71 Evening Rencontre . 187 

They walked on in the falling dusk until it was time 
to retrace their steps, and when the Manse gate was 
reached Jim paused in his impetuous flow of talk and 
would have said good-night, but Norman would not hear 
of parting. 

‘ Won’t you come in ? ’ he said. * I should like to 
have some further conversation with you ; ’ and he stood 
aside and held the gate open with a smile in which 
there was no subtle essence of condescension wherewith 
to vex the jealously proud soul of the young working 
man. He stepped within the Manse grounds and stood 
waiting till Norman had closed the gate. 

At this moment Mr. Morgan advanced and would 
have stopped to speak to the minister, but, catching sight 
of Jim Borland, he passed on with a stiff bow and a 
muttered salutation, and with a surprised and angry 
scowl upon his face. Jim’s pride was up in arms. He 
could not restrain the indignant stream of words that 
rushed to his lips. There never was, by any chance, a 
key of prudence at hand to lock in the anger that so 
readily found its way to the door of Jim’s lips. 

‘ There’s Morgan ! ’ he said excitedly. * He’s angry 
because he has seen me here. He thinks that I am not fit 
to be in your company ; and yet he’s religious ! He’s a 
pillar in your kirk, and as pious as you please — outside 
business hours. I would like to know how his religion 
affects his relationship to his men ? Why, religion has 
nothing to do with business, in his opinion. Self-interest 
is his God ! * 

‘ Aren’t you rather hard upon him ? You do not 


1 88 Norman Reid , M.A . 

know him altogether — you may be mistaken/ suggested 
Norman mildly. 

‘ I know quite enough of him ! I never heard of 
him doing an unselfish act. He can he kind enough, 
but it always turns out to his own advantage in the 
end. He thinks precious little of the workmen’s lives 
after work-hours. He gets his pound of flesh, and 
in return he gives them just as much wages as will 
keep them from starving. Oh, sir, if you had known, 
as so many in Otterton know, the weary aching of 
unsatisfied hunger — not starvation, but never satisfied 
hunger ! ’ — 

He broke off in strong emotion, and for a moment 
there was silence except for the crunching of their steps 
upon the gravelled walk. They reached the door, and 
Norman led the way up-stairs to his study. He desired 
to make his shy, wild visitor feel quite at ease with him, 
and to assure him that he at least was not out of sym- 
pathy with the young workman’s impulsiveness and 
strong, resistant youth. Was not he himself also a 
young man with a heart that beat humanly strong 
beneath the broadcloth of his holy office ? 

Norman lighted the study lamp, that its solitary beam 
might not put to flight the dusky sweetness of the 
summer night stealing in through the window which he 
left open and unscreened. The soft murmur of the Otter 
reached their ears, and from the window it could be seen 
winding wan and ghostly beneath the silvery light of 
the rising moon, coiling its way with many a ripple 
through level fields of clover and ripening grain, until at 


An Evening Rencontre, 189 

last it was lost to view amid the sombre silence of a fir 
plantation. 

Norman motioned him to a comfortable chair of 
crimson morocco, and sat down near him in his own 
especial seat by the window. 

‘ Is there no way of coming to an amicable settlement 
with Mr. Morgan about the wages question ? * he in- 
quired. He had heard from different sources of this 
crying grievance of the men who worked at Otterbank 
Foundry. 

‘ Not unless the men join the Union/ replied Jim. 

‘ We must just take the wages he gives us or starve, 
because the masters are banded together, and any 
workman who makes himself notorious in any way is 
dismissed, and he becomes a marked man throughout the 
whole county, and is known among the masters as a 
malcontent and a stirrer-up of strife/ 

* And how would the Union help you ? * 

‘ For one thing, there would be a fixed minimum wage 
higher than any that Morgan gives. This hand-to-mouth 
system is taking the pith out of the men, but they 
pretend that they are satisfied because they are afraid 
that Morgan would be down upon them if they grumble. 
Socialism is the thing. It will bring us redress and 
equality/ 

Norman smiled, but he was content to sift for the 
grains of sterling gold that lay among the dross of Jim’s 
opinions. 

‘ But it seems to me that, as things stand, equality 
is impossible/ he said quietly. 


190 Norman Reid , M.A. 

Jim moved restlessly in his chair. His peppery temper 
was ready to break forth in spite of his growing respect 
for the minister. 

‘ No, it is not impossible/ he said with an emphasis 
which was evidently but a substitute for a stronger 
means of expression. ‘ I tell you, Mr. Keid, that if it 
was not for the monopoly and the inordinate greed that 
for ever cries, “ Give ! give ! ” even the least able to work 
and the poorest endowed of men would have abundance. 
Ah, sir, you sit here in a comfortable house, and 
you have plenty to eat, and you have books. What of 
those who are never alone, for there is no room, never 
satisfied with their scanty bread, never sufficiently at 
ease in their minds to read ? Ah, if all had but 
the bare comforts of life, what a happy world this 
would be ! * 

Norman shook his head. ‘ It is a visionary Utopia/ 
he said gently. ‘Poverty and wealth are the natural 
extremes resulting from the operation of an inflexible 
social law. And Christ Himself said, “ The poor ye 
have always with you.” * 

Jim interrupted him rudely. He leaned forward 
eagerly in his chair, exclaiming, ‘ There’s the cloven 
hoof ! — there’s the confounded priestcraft that would 
like to stop all progress ! I beg your pardon, sir/ he 
added more gently ; ‘ but the thing touches me to the 
quick, you see/ 

‘ There is only one way of gaining true equality for all 
mankind/ said Norman thoughtfully. ‘Let all become 


An Evening Rencontre. 19 1 

Christians — in other words, let the kingdom of heaven 
begin on earth.’ 

‘ I know nothing about your kingdom of heaven, but I 
could understand that if Christianity, instead of being a 
sham, was all that it professed to be, the poor and down- 
trodden among men would not need to look to Socialism 
for redress. What do the representatives of Christianity 
do for the poor to whom their leader preached the 
gospel?’ cried Jim sneeringly. 

4 They walk in their Master’s footsteps 1 ’ broke in 
Norman. ‘ You do not know Christianity. I have told 
you before that you are much to be pitied if you have 
never known a true Christian.’ 

Jim laughed harshly. ‘ I have read that Christ was 
a Socialist,’ he said, ‘ and all I can say is, that if the 
principles professed by the Christians I know regulated 
their actions, this would be a different world. I believe 
that Christ was a Socialist — whether He was divine is 
another matter — and if His teaching was carried out 
literally, we might begin to look for the redemption of 
the race.’ 

* I agree with you so far,’ replied Norman. ‘ But why 
not go a step farther with me now ? Don’t you see 
that Christ, by teaching what you call Socialism — which 
is the brotherhood of men — implies that men have one 
Father — God ? ’ 

* I don’t know. It seems to me that Socialism tends 
to Atheism. We are left pretty much to ourselves, as far 
as I can see. The human race struggles and blunders 
on gradually into something better. God to me is 

17 


192 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


another name for chance — or, if you will, laic — and the 
poor have the brunt of the struggle to bear. Your creed 
is dying, sir ! ’ said J im suddenly. 

‘ Not at all ! * cried Norman with a swift light of 
battle in his eyes. ‘ I admit that there are signs of 
a change of form, but the creed itself is essentially 
indestructible. Our creed is for all time. Its form 
must be evanescent, because it is meant to suit the 
needs of the generations as they come. To-day we 
preach the Fatherhood of God. I will pray that you 
may get a glimpse of that divine fact; it would help 
you to unravel many tangled problems for the welfare of 
your fellows.’ 

* I care nothing about Him ! ’ said Jim angrily. 

‘ I think you do. You resist Him. To you, there- 
fore, He is a reality. Resistance to God is a much 
more hopeful sign in a soul than dull indifference to 
Him.’ 

* I never met a minister before who talked to me like 
that,’ said Jim frankly. * They were one and all shocked 
at me.’ 

4 Own that you rather gloried in shocking them,’ said 
Norman laughingly. 

‘ Well — I did. Do you really mean to say that you 
believe that the Christian creed changes to suit the 
times, Mr. Reid ? That’s not very orthodox, is it ? ’ 

* The form that the indestructible truth which is the 
kernel of the creed takes, suits itself to the times 
— that is what I mean,’ rejoined Norman, rising from 
his chair and commencing softly to pace to and fro. 


193 


An Evening Rencontre. 

‘The true Church of God is independent of so-called 
orthodoxy/ said lie. ‘Just as nature curbs her immature 
buds to protect them from blighting frosts, so do we 
wrap our creed in the protecting sheaths of dogma. 
Just as nature flings off her bud-sheaths in the fulness 
of time, so will we fling off the straining membranes of the 
various doctrines, and will emerge free and perfect in the 
fulness of time to form the eternal Church of Christian 
brotherhood. We are weak, and we long for purely 
human love and approbation in our journey through the 
world. And God’s love seems afar; but we shall 
surely reach it, brother clasping the hand of brother, 
forming a chain that will reach to Heaven, for the purest 
shall join hands with Christ the Elder Brother, who will 
lead us to the Father — the goal of all the creeds/ 

There was a solemn silence in the room for a little 
space. Jim was conscious of a strange feeling of awe 
as he looked at Norman pacing silently up and down 
with his head sunk on his breast. No sound broke the 
silence save the rush of the Otter past the moonlit 
garden. But slowly Jim gathered courage. The mock- 
ing spirit within him reasserted itself. 

‘ I admit that there may be a germ of truth beneath 
the dusty accumulations of Christian doctrines, but your 
Christian is like a mole — he has jinked so long back 
and forward among the earth and lumber that his coat 
is warranted to keep the nap sleek and fine both ways ; 
and religion suits enthusiasts very well too, for it’s a 
mere matter of feeling with them. But I — I must 
look before I leap. I must get the sanction of my 


194 Norman Reid ’ M.A. 

reason before I accept anything for truth. Seeing is 
believing.’ 

Norman lighted the gas and drew down the Venetian 
blinds before he spoke. He had been moved to speak 
out of his inmost soul, and he felt tremulous and weak 
after the effort. He flung himself somewhat wearily 
back in his chair, as he said with a gentle shake of the 
head, * Seeing, in this case, is not believing. Belief 
with a Christian comes before seeing. We apprehend 
the Son of God by something more subtle than in- 
tellect.’ 

Jim tossed his head impatiently. * That’s Greek to 
me ! ’ he said rudely. ‘ I suppose that’s another trick of 
the ministers, to keep back reasonable thinking.’ 

Norman was too large-hearted to take offence. He 
smiled at the display of youthful intolerance. 

‘ If your reason is to be your guide in the search for 
truth,’ he said, ‘ why do you argue with me, biassed on 
the other side ? You are too dogmatic to be un- 
prejudiced, I fear.’ 

Jim had the grace to feel ashamed. He coloured, 
while Norman proceeded to speak in earnest tones which 
were like a prayer. 

‘ I thank God that He revealed Himself as the Father, 
that He sent a Kedeemer into this poor world — not to 
minister to squeamish intellects, not to satisfy nor to 
exalt the reason of man, but to confound the wise, to 
exalt those of low degree. Ah, young man, you are 
strong and clever and arrogant in your pride of intellect ! 
Humble yourself if you truly desire the weal of the 


An Evening Rencontre . 195 

handicapped among your fellows. You would give them 
a redemption subject to earthly law and ending with the 
grave ? Christ offers an eternal redemption — mysterious, 
I grant you, and wholly beyond the logic and the needs 
of a self-sufficient, cold morality. You will never solve 
your moral and spiritual problems without this bene- 
ficent Christ-figure to explain them. You will never 
benefit your fellows, as you propose to do, until you 
realise in your own person the appalling horror, the 
deadliness of sin. Cast away your cold morality, your 
intellectual pride, and descend into the midst of the 
conflict — one with your fellows — for sin is rampant * — 
Norman paused abruptly, for after a preliminary 
knock at the door, Katie, who was unaware that Norman 
had a visitor in the study, ushered in a timid, girlish 
figure. It was Jessie Borland, and she coloured painfully 
when she saw Jim standing by the table with an eager 
look upon his face. 

As the eyes of brother and sister met Jim laughed, 
— an unpleasant laugh which caused the poor girl 
to sink nervously into the chair to which Norman 
conducted her. 

‘ It seems that there are a pair of fools in the family/ 
said Jim curtly, lifting his cap from the table and 
advancing towards the door. ‘ She is more in your line, 
Mr. Beid. She, poor thing, needs conversion periodi- 
cally ! She has been a Methodist, a Plymouthite, and 
a Baptist, and now she is a Salvationist. Perhaps she is 
going to be converted again ! * 

Norman felt keenly the ill-breeding and peevish bad 


196 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


temper displayed by the young man, but he closed the 
door upon him with a dignified good-night. Then he 
returned, with a half-repressed sigh, to take up the 
vicarious burden which this other soul in need brought 
to his door. 




CHAPTER XIX. 

THE WIDENING BREACH. 

Brutus, I do observe you now of late ; 

I have not from your eyes that gentleness 
And show of love as I was wont to have. 

Julius Casar. 

HE reader will recollect that the unexpected 
entrance of Clara Porteous into the dining- 
room of Otterbank House — about two months 
previous to the date our story has now 
reached — had suspended the somewhat heated conversa- 
tion between Norman and her uncle, arising out of the 
young minister’s request for a contribution towards the 
formation of a Working Men’s Club. 

Norman had left Otterbank House with his antipathy 
against his ruling elder strengthened ; but, although he 
had been momentarily hurt and annoyed at the display 
of domineering temper he had witnessed, the interview 
left no enduring feeling of resentment. In the interval 
between that evening and his leaving for Mentone 
Norman had not again encountered Mr. Morgan, who 
was absent from Otterton on business ; therefore, when 
at Rothesay he gave his mother the strange and urgently- 

107 



198 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


demanded promise that he would not quarrel with Mr. 
Morgan, he could honestly say that so far as he could 
judge there was no inclination on either side to quarrel, 
but, on the contrary, a very evident desire on Mr. 
Morgan’s part to he friendly. 

Although Norman had often to deplore his tendency 
to hasty indignation, his nature was too large and 
generous to be capable of harbouring ill-will towards 
any one who had struck forth a chance spark from his 
inflammable temper, and he judged others by himself. 
He would have been much surprised if he had known — 
what was actually the case — that, as the outcome of 
that evening’s interview, Mr. Morgan entertained a very 
decided feeling of hostility towards him. 

That the new minister — young, inexperienced, and a 
stranger to the town — should so precipitately have 
espoused the cause of the working men who were Mr. 
Morgan’s betes noires, and that he should have so 
energetically bestirred himself in the matter of the 
club, was a very irritating annoyance to the power- 
loving master of the foundry ; but even that was a 
small thing in comparison with the odious fact that he 
had not only stopped to listen to a Socialistic speech 
and vindicated his conduct with quite uncalled - for 
warmth, but that he had actually been so lost to a 
proper sense of what was becoming as to take a part 
in the disreputable affair. For Mr. Morgan had — to his 
intense disgust — become cognisant of the bare fact that. 
Norman had done so. He did not condescend to inquire 
into the circumstances that had induced the minister to 


The Widening Breach, 199 

speak out for Christ almost in spite of himself, for when 
once a prejudice obtained a lodgment in Mr. Morgan’s 
mind, straightway the evil growth assumed such bulk 
and stature that the light of justice and charity became 
obscured. Moreover he had, as we have seen, taken 
no pains to conceal his disapproval of Jim Borland’s 
presence within the Manse gates. Chiefly through Jim’s 
indiscretion and vanity, a garbled account of the con- 
versation between him and the minister had been bruited 
abroad. Jim, in fact, had thrown the gist of that con- 
versation like a glove of defiance in the face of his father 
and other * narrow-minded ’ Christians. He roundly 
asserted that the new minister was 'something like a 
man’ — that he was none of your strait-laced, self- 
righteous Pharisees ; and he darkly hinted that in con- 
genial company the minister could go a good deal further 
than he would dare to do in the pulpit — that, in short, 
he was much too fine a fellow and far too liberal a 
thinker to suit the good folk of Free St. John’s. 

This injudicious hero-worship did Norman an incalcul- 
able amount of harm, for immediately Dame Bumour — 
like the bloated, fly-catching spider that she is — began 
to spin her glutinous webs of scandal. 

Soon the idle tea-table Christians of Free St. John’s 
began to whisper that there was cause to fear that their 
new minister was not quite * sound ; ’ — that he was rather 
broad ; that he was not orthodox ; that he hobnobbed 
with people of shocking principles — with Socialists and 
Free-thinkers and people of that sort ; and that really 
with young people growing up in the church, it was a 


200 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


great pity that Mr. Eeid did not preach f the doctrines * 
in the good old style, etc., etc. 

Here, then, was Mr. Morgan’s opportunity at once to 
gratify his personal animosity, to reprove and admonish 
the minister, to rescue the church from dishonour, and 
to cover himself with glory as the defender of the faith ! 
Sad, is it not, to see a man good in the main, and capable 
of better things, allowing his heart to be poisoned and 
choked by the ugly fungus of hatred ? 

Thus, while Norman was daily winning the affections 
of the humble and the sorrow-laden and bringing many 
souls to Christ, while he was spending and being spent 
in the service of his Master, Mr. Morgan was diligently 
gathering evidence against him and biding his time to 
strike a telling blow. 

Norman’s thoughts naturally dwelt much upon his 
mother’s possible motive for so earnestly demanding his 
promise, and after his return from Eothesay he found 
himself pondering, with a gravity that was almost a dread, 
over Mr. Morgan’s character as revealed in his behaviour 
at meetings in the session - house and elsewhere. He 
shrank from probing his heart to discover the cause of 
the dull aching which always seemed to lurk there. His 
mind was so lofty and pure, that he felt contaminated by 
the thoughts his mother’s strange conduct suggested. In 
these circumstances he perceived sooner than he might 
otherwise have done the new coldness in Mr. Morgan’s 
manner. He began to detect a spice of antagonism in 
his demeanour towards him in the business meetings of 
the church. He also noticed that whereas in the past 


The Widening Breach. 201 

Mr. Morgan had courted his company homeward from 
any such meetings, he now seemed to avoid him, and that 
he no longer cordially invited him to visit at Otterbank 
House, which, now that it sheltered Clara Porteous, had 
for him an attraction it had hitherto lacked. 

But Norman, painfully mindful of his strange promise 
to his mother, was ever courteous and forbearing — a 
course of procedure which, as was to be expected in the 
case of a man so overbearing and tyrannical in disposition, 
merely encouraged Mr. Morgan to proceed further and 
more openly with his policy of bullying and opposition. 
It was a positive pleasure to such a man to venture as 
far as possible in the perilous game of rousing the lion 
in one whose sacred calling so evidently restrained his 
natural disposition to anger; and thus Norman’s very 
self-restraint left him at the mercy of his covert enemy, 
for such he came to the painful conclusion his ruling 
elder had now undoubtedly become. 

One July evening, however, when there was a haze of 
heat lying over the ripening corn-fields, and the Otter, 
half choked by water -weeds, ran low in its channel, 
Mr. Morgan overtook Norman as he was walking somewhat 
listlessly homeward and accosted him with stiff polite- 
ness. * We are having warm weather, Mr. Reid,’ said he, 
lifting his hat to wipe the sweat from his brow. 

‘Yes, there is much need of rain. Everything is 
suffering from the prolonged drought,’ rejoined Norman. 

* True. If the rain doesn’t come soon, the Otter will 
have disappeared entirely. It is exceptionally low this 
summer. Such a state of things is bad for the health.’ 


202 Norman Reid y A/.A. 

Norman acquiesced, and they walked on silently to- 
gether. 

‘ By the way / said Norman after a little, mainly for 
the purpose of breaking the awkward silence, ‘ I have 
been successful beyond my anticipations in getting the 
promise of funds to start the Working Men’s Club ; I 
think that it will be a solid fact by the New Year/ he 
added, smiling. * I have been hunting for subscriptions 
right and left/ 

* So I have heard/ replied Mr. Morgan dryly. 

‘ Would you care about giving something before the 
list is closed ? * inquired Norman with hesitation. 

* No ; I will not foot any of your insolent subscription 
lists ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Morgan, completely carried away 
by his •anger. ‘ I gave you my answer before, sir/ he 
continued, glancing irefully at Norman’s stern face, ‘ and 
if you had been a man of any tact or good feeling, you 
would then have desisted from proceeding with a project 
so distasteful to me. I am the largest employer of labour 
in the district, and it is intolerable to find you inter- 
meddling with my concerns, sir. I tell you plainly that 
I reSent it/ 

Norman’s face flushed and his eyes flashed dangerously. 
It was with an effort that he mastered himself. 

‘ I am sorry that the idea of the club is so distaste- 
ful to you. I am sorry that you find it such a 
source of annoyance, but I must say, at the risk of 
again offending you, that there is a great necessity for 
such a club, and I find that others must have thought 
so too, for my scheme has found ready support from — 


The Widening Breach. 203 

other employers of labour and men of influence in the 
town.’ 

This was adding fuel to the fire of Mr. Morgan’s 
wrath. That lie should be placed in such a secondary 
position by this clerical stranger was indeed insulting. 

‘ How do you account for men born and bred in 
Otterton not providing for this clamant need before 
your advent ? ’ he inquired sarcastically. 

‘ I suppose that they were too busy to take up the 
matter. You cannot deny that this list shows how 
favourably the scheme has been considered.’ Norman 
took out his pocket-book, and, opening it, drew forth the 
list and handed it to Mr. Morgan. The latter glanced at 
it with growing anger. He was deeply annoyed because 
his name did not head the list, for in this as in everything 
else he desired to be foremost. But he scorned to reveal 
his thoughts to Norman. Returning the paper, he said 
with the slow emphasis of one who is holding his temper 
in leash, — 

‘ If you attended properly to the work of your own 
congregation, sir, you would have less time to meddle 
with other people’s affairs.’ 

‘ Mr. Morgan,’ cried Norman indignantly, * you have 
evidently a desire to quarrel ! This matter is the affair 
of any man who has the best interests of the workmen 
at heart/ 

‘ Take care that you don’t get yourself into trouble in 
enacting your role of working man’s champion ! ’ in- 
terrupted Mr. Morgan sharply ; and thereupon he burst 
forth into a raging tirade against Norman, Jim Borland, 


204 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


and Socialism, ending with a scathing accusation of 
heterodoxy. Norman stood as if petrified. It humiliated 
him to witness such a demonstration of mad passion. He 
was so lost in a sense of pity and shame for the unhappy 
possessor of such an ungovernable temper, that he scarcely 
realised the personal direction and significance of his 
ruling elder’s denunciation. 

But soon Mr. Morgan paused abruptly, conscious of 
the silent self-restraint on Norman’s part. He wished to 
lash him into retort, he was eager to see him flare out 
into an answering indignation, so that he might have an 
excuse for thus pouring out the vials of his wrath. But 
Norman walked silently by his side, white-lipped, resolute, 
stern, grieved to the heart that by his imprudent reference 
to the subscription list he should have provoked the 
unchristian outburst. 

Norman’s silence was intolerable to the irate Mr. 
Morgan. He fancied that it was meant as an insult and 
a rebuke to him, and in a voice broken by rage he 
returned to the charge. 

‘You shall answer for your heterodoxy before the 
Presbytery, sir ! You are a perverter of the truth, a 
wolf in sheep’s clothing, a — a double-faced man ! ’ 

At last Norman roused himself ; but, mindful even yet 
of his promise to his mother, he replied with dignity, — 
‘I am conscious of no wrong-doing. What I have 
said to lead any one to the conclusion that I am heterodox 
I know not ; but ’ — with a flash of the natural fire — 
‘ what I have said I will stand by. Produce your proofs ! ’ 
They had reached the iron bridge now, and Norman 


The Widening Breach. 205 

paused and glanced with calm defiance into Mr. Morgan’s 
flushed face. 

What was it that suddenly caused the angry elder to take 
a hasty step backwards and to place a tremulous hand on 
the bridge for support, even while his mouth was opened 
to accuse the young minister, and such an expression on 
his face as might have been there if Norman had dealt 
him a blow with his clenched hand ? Was it the ghost 
of a buried memory that looked out of the young 
minister’s indignant eyes and animated with the far- 
away light of the past the sternly resolute face which 
was on a level with his own ? 

The scathing words were arrested on his lips, and he 
found himself weakly trying to account for this baffling 
experience, while Norman stood awaiting his reply. 
With a supreme effort he recalled his thoughts. 

‘ I shall produce my proofs at the proper time and in 
the proper place, Mr. Reid/ he said in a quieter tone. 

‘But I have a right to demand your meaning, Mr. 
Morgan. Repeat to me, if you please, the specific charge 
made against me ? ’ 

But the elder was once more lost in elusive memories. 
Where had he seen that face before ? Of whose did it 
remind him ? He felt curiously shaken. He tried hard 
to recall the words of the charge. After a pause he said, 
in the peevish tone of one baffled and driven, ‘Jim 
Borland declares that you assert that the Church is 
independent of orthodoxy.’ 

‘ That is true/ replied Norman quietly ; ‘ but my 
words have been wrested from their context. I am 


206 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


ready to answer any charge made against me. I repeat 
the statement * — 

The elder interrupted him. 

* Good God, Mr. Reid ! don’t you see how you will 
unsettle the minds of the young people of the congrega- 
tion if you promulgate such doctrine ? ’ Mr. Morgan was 
really horrified, and he tried once more to lash himself 
into the doubtful freedom of anger. But his effort was 
like that of a foaming wave dashing itself against a sted- 
fast cliff, and in spite of himself the young minister’s 
face with its haunting suggestion of something which he 
failed to grasp subdued him. He turned to go. ‘ I will 
say good-night, Mr. Reid,’ said he slowly. ‘ You shall 
hear further of this in the course of a few days ; ’ and he 
was gone without deigning to acknowledge Norman’s 
grave bow. 




CHAPTER XX. 


THE SCENE IN THE FOUNDRY. 



I pray thee then. 

Write me as one who loves my fellow-men* 

Leigh Hunt. 

NE Monday afternoon there was an unusual 
atmosphere of suppressed excitement in the 
foundry of Morgan & Co. It was known 
that that was the day upon which Jim 
Borland had promised to give the master his decision 
regarding his invention ; and before the great bell clanged, 
calling the men to resume work after two o’clock, they 
had stood about the gates in little cliques discussing the 
pros and cons of the affair. 

But none of them professed themselves able to calculate 
with any certainty the course of action that Jim would 
pursue. During the weeks since his Socialistic address 
to them, he had had to stand a good deal of badgering and 
inquisitive comment, and in some quarters not a little 
ill-will ; all this had the effect of closing his mouth 
against any confidences, and to friend and foe alike Jim 
shook his tawny locks and snapped his lips firmly together 

in an unsatisfactory silence and defiance. This did not 

18 



208 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


hinder some of the men from advising him to sell his 
machine to Morgan for as much as he could ‘ screw out 
of him ; ’ but others muttered and threatened under their 
breath as Jim passed through the grimy shop that hot 
July afternoon, carrying his model carefully wrapped up 
under his arm. 

He heeded neither scowls nor sneers. Once only did 
his resolute lips tremble a little as he caught a whisper 
from a pale and nervous man who was listlessly manipu- 
lating a glittering bar of steel : ‘ Jim, Jim lad, noo is 
your chance to show your grit. I look to you. Stand 
up for your brithers ; ’ and the dazzle of the steel 
seemed for an instant to multiply itself before Jim’s eyes 
into quite a lane of straight bright bars. 

He stopped at his own corner of the workshop opposite 
a dusty cobwebbed window through which the sun shone, 
lighting up the dance of the dust-motes, and, laying down 
his model on the iron bench, proceeded to fling off his 
coat previous to commencing work. 

Until four o’clock the busy routine of the workshop 
continued. At that hour, a dapper little clerk, who 
happened to be Jim’s special aversion and upon whom 
he often lavished the choicest terms of opprobrium in his 
extensive vocabulary, approached him with a message 
from Mr. Morgan. 

f Hey, you — Bob, Tom, Jim, what’s your name ? — 
Borland, — you’re wanted in the office immediately ! ’ he 
said superciliously, pretending to forget his name — on the 
snobbish principle that it is a mark of dignity not to 
know the vulgar appellations of men in fustian. 


209 


The Scene in the Foundry . 

Jim was furious. * Does your mother know you’re out, 
my bantam ? ’ said he. ‘ Deliver your message properly, 
or I’ll kick you out of this ! ’ 

The clerk turned red with offended dignity. 

‘ I’ll let Morgan know how you received his message, 
my man. He’s about sick of your airs and graces.’ 

Jim took a stride forward, and the little clerk jumped 
backwards in alarm while the men began to laugh. * A 
kick is too good for you/ said Jim disgustedly, returning 
to his bench and taking up his tools again. ‘ Tell 
Morgan that if he wants me, he know’s where to find 
me/ he cried over his shoulder to the fast-retreating 
clerk, who paused in dismay at the audacity of the 
message. 

‘ Oh, come, I say ! I can’t take a message like that, 
you know. I can’t go back ’ — 

* Go to the devil! ’ cried Jim in a voice of thunder, 
taking another step towards the little clerk, who, thinking 
discretion 4 the better part of valour/ walked quickly off 
amid the laughter of the men. 

It was evident to Jim’s companions that he was 
labouring under intense inward excitement, and with 
their curiosity about what he intended to do there now 
mingled the pleasing anticipation of ‘a row.’ 

Work was resumed, and for half an hour nothing 
occurred to break the noisy monotony of the work- 
shop. Then the commanding figure of Mr. Morgan was 
seen coming rapidly through the shop in search of Jim. 
There was a pause of expectancy among the men, and 
the lazier among their number took advantage of the 


210 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


occasion to settle themselves comfortably to listen to all 
that might be said. 

Mr. Morgan paused in front of Jim’s bench. There 
was no love lost between the two, and Jim could not 
repress a smile as he saw how difficult the master found 
it to pocket his pride by coming to seek him before all 
the men. 

4 You have chosen a strange place in which to dispose 
of private business, my man/ said the master with a 
heightened colour. ‘ Am I to understand that you wish 
to settle the matter here and now ? ’ 

* Certainly, sir/ replied Jim, who until the unlucky en- 
counter with the clerk had not dreamed of such a thing. 
But now his quick wit suggested a highly dramatic 
situation to him — with himself, of course, as the hero ! 
Now the men should see something worth while. He 
looked so eagerly round that Mr. Morgan at once 
suspected that a trap was being laid for him, especially 
when he observed the curiosity and suppressed humour 
on the faces of the men. 

He shrugged his shoulders, and, turning to Jim, said, 
‘ There is no accounting for tastes. As I have no time to 
waste, I will just repeat my offer for your invention. 
I offer you a hundred pounds for the sole use and posses- 
sion of your machine. Your answer, if you please.’ 

Jim could not resist glancing round to his fellow- 
workmen with a look of triumph, and there was a 
sudden movement among them, and a murmur which 
was lost in a hiss. The master looked about him 
observantly, his keen eyes evidently taking note of the 


21 I 


The Scene in the Foundry. 

whole proceedings, and the men knew that the eagle 
glances boded no good for some of their number. But 
all eyes now fixed themselves upon Jim, who drew 
himself up proudly, his young figure thrown into strong 
relief by the immense black furnace almost immediately 
behind him. Jim was quite in his element, for a telling 
* situation ’ of any kind was dear to his heart. 

‘ I am waiting for your answer,’ repeated Mr. Morgan, 
taking his watch from his vest-pocket ostentatiously. He 
spoke with haughty impatience, vowing inly that once 
the machine was in his hands this extremely insolent 
mechanic should be dismissed. 

Perhaps Jim read this in his face, or perhaps the 
knowledge that he was ‘ the cynosure of all eyes ’ stimu- 
lated him into extraordinary action. At any rate, he 
swiftly unwrapped the covering from his machine and 
held it aloft — a glittering, intricate toy — in the gaze of 
all. 

‘ Behold the curse of the working man ! ’ he cried. 
‘ Behold the idol of oppression and monopoly ! and yet 
the monster was engendered in the brain of an honest 
working man ! Don’t you think it a cruel thing, men, 
that one of yourselves should have endured laborious 
days and sleepless nights of travail, all to bring forth 
this monstrous birth of the brain ? And my doom is to 
love it! — to glory in it, and yet to fear it ! ’ He turned 
to the staring men with a look of almost tragic import 
on his boyish face. ‘ Work was my deity ! ’ he cried ; * I 
worshipped it with all my heart. I thought that in the 
creed of the necessity and nobility of work there was at 


212 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


all events no humbug nor religious cant, and I set about 
thinking how best to ennoble it. But it failed me ! 
See, this is the result ! this is the image which my 
inordinate belief engendered, and by this false god of the 
creed of Work shall come my downfall.’ 

He spoke with such a rushing energy of speech that 
master and men alike were spellbound before him. 

* There came a time,’ he resumed , 4 when I was cast out 
of my fool’s paradise, and — oh, men ! — this emblem of 
my creed became the flashing sword to guard its closed 
gates ! ’ He held higher still the shining toy-machine, 
whose intricate structure of steel and brass scintillated 
in the dusty sunbeams. 4 Yes, it has become a two-edged 
sword of destruction, and now the only choice I have is 
upon which keen edge I shall seek my doom. If I 
choose the one, then farewell for ever to wealth, power, 
and the liberty to use the brains which are my only 
capital. If I choose the other, farewell then to peace 
of mind, to my ideal of the brotherhood of men, to my 
right to labour with the hands which are a working man’s 
legitimate tools. And there’s not one among you,’ cried 
Jim, with a wistful smile which suddenly softened the 
fierce light in his eyes , — 4 no, not one, who will give me 
the credit of choosing the only path possible — the path 
leading to the greatest sacrifice’ — 

But the rest of his sentence was lost in a spontaneous 
cheer from the men, which was instantly suppressed, 
however, by the keen glance of Mr. Morgan, who now 
stepped nearer Jim. 

‘These heroics don’t suit business matters/ he said 


213 


The Scene in the Foundry . 

with a cold sneer. * I come here willing to give you fair 
money value for your patent. I suppose that you didn’t 
contrive and make it for nothing. Once more, and for 
the last time — your answer.’ 

‘ This is my answer ! ’ thundered Jim, flinging his 
model down on the iron bench before him and lifting a 
hammer high above his head. ‘ This is my answer,’ he 
repeated, bringing down the hammer upon the delicate 
machine with a destructive force that shivered it into 
atoms and startled the master into a sudden lurch back- 
ward to escape the wind of the swinging stroke. ‘ I will 
not give you my machine. I will not take the bread 
out of my fellow- workmen’s mouths to win the curse of 
their wives and children. I am none of your canting 
Christian monopolists, but at least I love my fellow-men.’ 

He swung open the door of the furnace behind him as 
he spoke, and, hastily collecting the glittering fragments 
of his machine, he swept them into the fiery heart of the 
devouring flames. He wheeled round, his figure aglow 
with the reflection from the huge fire, and, as he flung to 
the furnace door, he cried aloud like one possessed, ‘ May 
the brain which fashioned it burn for ever if I ever 
again seek to injure my fellow-men.’ 

The workmen stood like swarthy statues, awed into 
stillness by the frenzy in their comrade’s young face, but 
Mr. Morgan turned on his heel with an angry and 
scornful laugh. 

‘ You blasphemous fellow, you are mad !’ he said. 1 You 
* stand in your own light. You will be the chief loser by 
this freak, for I have not the slightest doubt that I will 


214 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


be able to procure another patent possibly better fitted 
than yours to suit my pui pose. I need not say that of 
course you are dismissed on the spot. I will give you 
the compensation legally due you in lieu of the usual 
notice of dismissal.’ 

He turned to quit the shop, leaving Jim pale and 
panting with excitement, his only comfort in this dark 
hour being that by his destruction of the patent he had 
ensured the continued employment of the men who, in 
the event of the introduction of the new machinery, 
would have got their dismissal. 

Just as Mr. Morgan reached the door, a groan of 
derision and a long hiss arrested his steps. He turned 
sharply round and discovered Kerr and Morrison and 
some others in the very act of disrespect and insubordina- 
tion. Rab Reyburn, who as usual was well soaked with 
whisky, had his finger extended from the exceedingly 
red and knobby point of his nose in a contemptuous 
daring which gave the finishing touch of drollery to his 
caricature of a face — a bit of humour which the master 
of the foundry could scarcely be expected to appreciate. 

‘ Reyburn — Kerr — Morrison — Muir — Louden ! ’ he 
exclaimed, enumerating the delinquents with rapid anger, 
‘ 1 give you notice to quit my employment. You too, 
Alexander and Glover. What on earth are you grinning 
at ? You low rascals, how dare you insult me in such a 
manner ? I will let it be known, mark my words ! 
You're the worst lot in the shop — drunken fellows ! ’ 
And therewith he departed, leaving the men whom he 
had named cursing him under their breath, but too much 


The Scene in the Foundry . 215 

in awe of him to give any further audible vent to their 
feelings. 

As for Jim, when he realised that his supreme sacrifice 
had proved unavailing, when he realised that through his 
recklessness and foolish love for a scene he had implicated 
in his own ruin some of the very men whose dismissal he 
had so impetuously striven to avert, his feelings were 
indescribable. He lifted his coat, and slowly putting it 
on, began to gather his tools together in a dazed fashion. 

‘This is a fine day’s wark, Jim Borland,’ said Kerr in 
a tone of bitter upbraiding. ‘ What am I to say to the 
mistress when I gang hame ? It’s a’ your faut. We’ll 
hae to pay dear for your whistle, I’m thinkinV 

But old Hughie Drennan motioned him to be silent, 
and another of the men stepped up to Jim’s downcast 
figure and laid a horny hand kindly upon his shoulder. 
‘ Jim, lad,’ said he with a delicate perception of the 
young man’s sharpest pang in this sore hour of downfall, 
‘ dinna vex yoursel’ for us. We’ll maybe mak’ Morgan 
laugh on the wrang side o’ his rnooth yet. We’re prood 
0’ the way ye stood up for the working men, but it 
wasna worth your while to spoil the bit bonnie machine 
for a’ that. Mak’ it ower again and seek your fortune 
some ither gait, lad ; no’ ane 0’ us will say ye nay.’ 

‘ We’ll no’ forget hoo ye stood up for us ’ — 

‘And didna manage it, Jim,’ added the opposing 
clique as Jim moved slowly and silently between them 
on his ‘ via dolorosa ’ out of the work. 

19 



CHAPTER XXL 

A TRAGIC FAREWELL. 

Judge none lost, but wait and see 
With hopeful pity, not disdain ; 

The depth of the abyss may be 
The measure of the height of pain, 

And love and glory that may raise 
This soul to God in after days. 

A. A. Procter. 

ATER that same evening Katie Lawson set out 
to visit Mysie. A fortnight before, Doctor 
Neaves had come to stay at the Manse, and 
Mysie had — rather reluctantly, it must be 
confessed — submitted to his examination of her eyes, with 
the result that he had declared the cataract which had 
destroyed her vision quite possible of extraction. The 
operation, therefore, took place ; and through Norman’s 
generous kindness she was placed thereafter under the 
care of a skilful nurse who came from Glasgow and 
took up her abode in the little cottage, as old Adam would 
not hear of Mysie’s removal from home. 

As Mysie’s health was excellent and her disposition 
singularly favourable to her chances of a speedy recovery, 

there was every reason to believe that her sight would 

216 



217 


A Tragic Farewell . 

soon be restored to her. She was still confined to her 
darkened room with her eyes closely bandaged, although 
the doctor bad promised to let her test them on an early 
day. Meanwhile she had been warned to submit in 
every particular to the nurse’s experienced skill and to 
keep all worry and anxiety at arm’s length — an admoni- 
tion which it was very easy for gentle, patient Mysie to 
obey. 

As Katie Lawson approached the garden gate she saw 
old Adam leaning against it, smoking his evening pipe. 

f Come awa’, Mrs. Lawson ; I’m gled to see you ,’ said 
he, making haste to open the gate. ‘ Jist bide ye a minute 
or twa till I smoke oot my pipe, for my hoose is no’ my 
ain noo-a-days. That new-fangled nurse o’ Mysie’s rides 
ower my heid completely ; and, wad ye credit it, she sets 
me to keep the garden yett ilka nicht efter sax o’clock.’ 

* What for ? ’ inquired Katie, unloosing her bonnet- 
strings, for the evening was close and warm. 

‘ ’Od, to keep the women-folk oot ! The hoose is gaun 
like a hotel wi’ kimmers spierin’ for Mysie. Ye wad 
think that my bit lassie was a queen’s dochter, sae mony 
comes to spier efter her health. I was jist thinkin’ o’ 
gettin’ a bit paper pasted upon the yett wi’ the latest 
bulletin, ye ken, for I’m fair sick stannin’ here like a 
bogle to fear the craws.’ 

‘ And hoo is Mysie the nicht ? ’ 

4 She’s verra weel ; but I’m thinkin’ she’ll no* be lang 
weel when ance she hears the news I hae heard this 
nicht.’ 

‘ What news, Adam, if it’s a fair question ? ’ 


2 1 8 


Norman Reid } M.A. 


1 ’Od, that royd lassie Jessie Borland has jist been here, 
tellin’ me that Jim and a wheen mair hae gotten the bag 
for kickin’ np a shine in the foondry the day ; and there’s 
a bonnie to-do at hame ower the subject. Jessie says that 
her father blames Mr. Beid for haein’ a finger in the pie.* 

‘ Say ye sae ? Hoo’s that ? ’ cried Katie anxiously. 

* He blames the minister for eggin’ Jim up against 
sellin’ his patent to Morgan.’ 

‘ Eh me ! ’ interrupted Katie in dismay. 

* Ay ; and the lad gaed on like a play-actor in the 
shop, and ended by smashin’ his machine and hingin’ the 
bits o’t intil the big furnace and lettin’ Morgan ken 
what he thocht o’m. And noo he’s for aff to America, 
and guid only kens hoo Mysie ’ll tak’ the news. It comes 
rael hard on a peaceable auld man like me. I’m for 
haein’ peace at ony price at my time o’ life, for I’m no’ 
like Morgan, wha’s weel kent to be a quarrelsome fellow.’ 

‘Is he?’ 

‘ Ay ; he has a notion that a row in the work noo and 
again clears the air — he’s a kind o’ moral thunderstorm, 
as ye inicht say.’ 

‘ Maybe he’ll bring doon his thunder and lichtnin* 
aboot his ain heid yet,’ said Katie under her breath. 
Aloud she said, ‘ Mysie will be weel quit o’ Jim Borland.’ 

* Eh, if she could be brocht to see it ! ’ ejaculated Adam 
fervently; 'but lassies are wilfu’ craturs. They’ll tak’ 
their ain way, and ye canna nail them to the wa’ and 
prune them into the richt direction as if they were cherry 
trees — mair’s the pity ! There’s Jessie Borland noo ; she 
has aye some daft-like ploy on hand, and ’deed, wi’ a’ her 


A Tragic Farewell. 219 

religion, she canna help singin’ the verra hymns to Mysie 
as gin they were godless tunes to dance a Scotch reel by. 
Noo, what do ye think she was toyin' to puzzle my auld 
brains wi’ no’ an ’oor syne, Mrs. Lawson ? ’ 

‘ ’Deed, Adam, that • wad be hard to tell,’ said Katie 
absently, for she was thinking over Norman’s alleged 
complicity in the matter that had led to Jim Borland’s 
dismissal. 

Weel, uncle, tell me noo,” quo’ she — -jist stannin’ 
swingin’ like a bit lassie on this verra yett, Mrs. Lawson, 
— “ dae ye believe that the warl’ was really made in sax 
days, and dae ye think the millennium will ever win 
the length 0’ Otterton ? ” I declare to ye I didna ken 
whether she was jokin’ or in earnest.’ 

* She’s mair need to tak’ up her heid wi’ things nearer 
hand/ 

Mist exactly what I telt her ! “ Jessie,” quo’ I, “ what 

does the like o’ that matter to you ? Tak’ up your heid 
wi’ helpin’ your mither among a’ yon steerin’ weans and 
wi’ ribbons and sic-like women’s fal-lals, and leave things 
o’ wecht like the creation and the millennium to the 
men. It needs a broad and a masculine mind to haud 
a grup o’ the doctrines.” * 

* The men ! save us a’ ! * cried Katie, unable to resist a 
fling at Adam’s self-complacency. ‘ Bonnie doctrines the 
men mak’ oot o’ the Bible ! Broad and wechty, say ye ? 
The feck o’ men’s minds are aboot as broad as their ain 
twa feet, and as wechty as their heids on a simmer efter- 
nune ih the kirk — nae mair ! ’ 

f Weel, weel, we’ll awa’ to Mysie noo. I hae gotten 


220 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


my fairin’ frae ye as usual, Mrs. Lawson,’ said Adam, 
lifting his arms stiffly off the top rail of the little gate 
whereon he had been leaning ; and, after knocking the 
ashes out of his pipe, he preceded Katie along the garden 
path to the cottage. ‘ Dinna let on to Mysie aboot 
Borland. I’ll hae nae time for a langer crack wi’ ye the 
nicht, Mrs. Lawson,’ he said as they entered, ‘ for I maun 
jist change my coat and awa’ to open the hall. This is 
the prayer-meetin’ nicht, ye ken.’ 

‘ Yes ; I’m gaun too after I hae spoken to Mysie a 
wee,’ said Katie as Adam opened the door and admitted 
her to the darkened little room where Mysie sat. 

An hour later, and another visitor came up the garden 
path in search of the blind girl. 

It was Jim Borland, who had not been at the cottage 
since the night on which Mysie had so plainly shown 
him how impassable was the gulf that his unbelief had 
fixed between them. But now that he had determined 
to leave the country as soon as possible, he felt that he 
must take the first opportunity of bidding his sweetheart 
farewell. He knew that on this evening Adam would be 
on duty at the prayer-meeting, and he had come on the 
mere chance of finding her alone. The details of the 
operation upon her eyes were unknown to him. He had 
heard that she had a nurse in constant attendance, but 
he trusted to his wits to find a pretext for speaking to 
Mysie alone. For once fortune favoured him. The 
nurse had been persuaded to accompany Katie Lawson to 
the prayer-meeting, and, as Mysie’s friends were familiar 
with the simple routine of her day and the invalid habits 


22 1 


A Tragic Farewell . 

which necessitated early hours and quietness, no visitors 
were thought likely to disturb her seclusion. 

But while Mysie was sitting in the darkened chamber, 
meditating in the calm summer evening and feeling 
somewhat languid and despondent now that she was alone 
with her thoughts, she heard the click of the garden gate 
as it fell back on the latch after Jim’s unquiet entrance. 
She recognised his step, hurried and unequal though it 
was, and her delicate frame, rendered more sensitive by 
the weakness consequent upon the ordeal she had so 
recently passed through, thrilled with a faint nervous 
presage of coming sorrow. 

It was with a full heart that Jim walked along the 
familiar garden path, for he knew that in all probability 
he was there for the last time. 

He saw the rose-bushes that Mysie loved, and noted 
half -unconsciously how they drooped in the sultry sun- 
set, which turned the luscious raspberries and clustering 
bunches of the pendent red-currants into jewels that 
shone like magical rubies amid their cool green setting 
of foliage. The sky was flushed with western rose, and 
the level rays from the declining sun were filtering 
through a haze of filmy yellow, which almost seemed 
to palpitate in the thunderous atmosphere. Nature was 
sore athirst for the rain which still delayed its coming, 
and the song of the Otter was unheard now, for the 
shallow water oozed languidly from slimy stone to stone, 
and the grass on the sloping banks was sun-browned 
and dusty. All this Jim saw as he paused to look over 
the scorched hedge of sweet-brier at the foot of the garden, 


222 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


and he turned away with a sigh, his mental disquietude 
intensified by Nature’s oppressed mood. 

He walked on, but when he drew near to the cottage 
door his heart was beating so rapidly that he had to 
pause a moment to recover himself. Then he knocked 
softly and entered the familiar room where Mysie stood 
in nervous expectation of his coming. 

At another time, Jim would have been pitifully tender 
over his blind sweetheart, standing before him so pathe- 
tically helpless with her poor eyes bound and hidden 
from the light ; but now he was in such an extreme state 
of excitement that he plunged without any preface into 
a rapid description of the scene in the foundry. She 
groped her way tremblingly to a chair, and sat listening 
silently and with fast-growing apprehensiveness to Jim’s 
eager tale. 

‘ And now, Mysie,’ he concluded sadly, * I am come to 
bid you farewell. That is all that remains to be done, 
for well I know that your precious love is not for the 
like of me. I must be an alien from love and from 
home. I am a marked man if I stay here, so I must go 
away for ever. My dear, dear lassie, my heart is break- 
ing when I think that I’ll never see your bonnie open 
een, and that you’ll walk aboot and look upon the faces 
o’ everybody ye ken — but me ! Oh, Mysie, in the days 
to come, think sometimes on rash Jim Borland, for oh, he 
lo’es ye weel ! ’ He had relapsed into his homely mother 
tongue as he clasped her slender form to his bosom. 

' Oh, Jim, winna ye bide — for my sake, for my sake ? ’ 
cried she in a shaken voice. 


A Tragic Farezvell. 223 

It was Jim who had now to remind her of the 
obstacles she had placed in the way of their union. 

‘You forget, my ain Mysie, all that must come to 
pass before you and I can wed, and I fear that I’m 
farther from your road to heaven than ever. We must 
say farewell for ever, my bonnie love.’ 

He kissed her again and again, while she sobbed and 
wept, but at length the last fond words were spoken and 
Jim stood up to depart. * Oh, Mysie,’ he said with a 
wistful look into her sad face, * though I shall never see 
your bonnie grey een when I am far away, I’ll be glad 
to mind that you are no longer blind I Good-bye.’ 
And he was gone. 

But Mysie groped her way after him as he left the 
cottage door. 

‘ Ye shall see my een, if that will comfort you in the 
years to come; and-oh, I maun see your face ance mair 
on this side o’ the grave ! ’ she cried, suddenly lifting her 
hands and unloosing the bandage from her eyes before 
Jim could rush forward to prevent her. 

Then she uttered a shriek of pain as the sunset flood 
of light pierced into her tender eyeballs, and with an 
indistinct vision of her lover’s young figure blurred and 
dark against the expanse of western red Mysie fell 
senseless at his feet. 

That was Mysie’s first and last look on the light of 
day. That was the solitary vision she brought back 
with her into the darkness which was her portion as 
long as she lived ; for irreparable injury had been done 


224 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


by the premature withdrawal of the bandage from her 
eyes ; and after a season of grief and anxiety, of fluctuat- 
ing hopes and fears, she emerged from the sick-room to 
take up, once for all, the burden of blindness, which was 
at once her cross and her crown. 

_Jim and she met never more. Theirs was but another 
of those countless love tragedies which go to swell the 
sum of the world’s pain from day to day. He spends 
his life abroad in toil and reckless daring, but often- 
times in the lonely hours of his adventurous life a vision 
of his holy, gentle Mysie visits him, and his heart thrills 
anew with the fervour of a love that will keep him free 
from stain till the day of his death ; and Mysie in her 
cottage home prays for him, her petitions liberalised by 
purifying sorrow — that barrier-breaker of the dogmas 
which men have raised to hedge the divine truth, — for 
her faith is boundless that the Father who had sown in 
Jim’s large heart the tiny flax-seeds of the sense of the 
brotherhood of men, will in His own time weave the 
fragile fibres into a cable that will draw her lover to his 
God, who is the source and the permanence of love. 




CHAPTER XXIL 
Clara’s confession. 

Where two fight, 

The strongest wins, and truth and love are strength. 

Tennysow. 

us be thankful that the benign influences of 
, sunny morning are so wonderfully potent 
o lighten all the manifold burdens of life. 

For a draught of sparkling morning air in- 
vigorates and stimulates our jaded nature and revives 
our drooping energies, until we half believe that for us 
all things are possible of accomplishment. Morning is the 
flood-tide in the affairs of men : then hope soars on eagle 
pinions, then the ideal which had seemed so unattainable 
bears us on singing wings of ecstesy to the gates of heaven, 
and even our sombre sorrows are glorified for the nonce 
by the tearful aureole of resignation. Let us be thankful, 
then, for the pure, glad morning ; let us act as far as in 
us lies on the impulses the morning brings, nor paralyse 
our evanescent energies with the sad reflection that vith 
the evening shall come the ebb-tide of all our morning 
dreams of great achievements, when the night shall once 



226 


Norman Reid ’ M.A . 


more darken about us, thronged with shadowy phantoms 
of what might have been. 

Such, in some measure at least, was the feeling and 
experience of Mr. Morgan as he descended from his bed- 
chamber in fresh morning toilet and with a cheerful 
aspect on the day after the scene in the foundry. As he 
entered the breakfast-room, where the pleasant sunlight 
fell upon the well-appointed table, and the scent from 
the early mignonette was wafted in through the open 
window whose filmy curtains of lace swayed softly in 
the light breeze, he was half beguiled into forgetting the 
disagreeable events of the previous day, which, despite 
Adam Auld’s assertion that he dearly loved a disturbance, 
had had power to send him to bed in a very troubled 
and morose frame of mind. 

He stepped over to the window with a smile, for on 
the lawn stood Clara, cool and lovely in her white morn- 
ing gown, distributing crumbs to the birds who hopped 
about with saucy chirping and bright eyes, bent on a 
foraging expedition among the strawberry-beds after this 
merely superfluous meal of crumbs had whetted the edge 
of their morning appetite. 

Clara looked towards the window, and, upon seeing her 
uncle standing there, she waved him a greeting, and, fling- 
ing away the last handful of crumbs, ran across the lawn. 
After a moment’s pause by the flower-beds to gather 
some of the dusky crimson orbs of the damask roses 
which had perfected their beauty in the dewy night, she 
entered the breakfast-room and took her place opposite 
her uncle at the table. 


Claras Confession . 227 

* Well, my dear, you look as fresh and trim as a 
daisy ! * was his affectionate greeting as he received from 
her hand a cup of coffee, fragrant and steaming from the 
quaint silver coffee-pot flashing in the sunshine. 

* I delight in these cool mornings — it is so pleasant 
to be out of doors before the heat of the day begins/ 
said Clara. ‘ I am afraid that this warm weather 
is making me lazy, though. I am not pleased with 
myself.’ 

‘ But you can afford to be as lazy as you choose, 
Clara ; I want you to have some pleasure in your life 
now. It reminds me of my boyhood to see you about 
the place. I can assure you that you have transformed 
my house into a very pleasant home since your coming. 
You must never leave me, my dear, until somebody 
comes to take you to adorn a home of your own.’ 

Clara looked down at her plate with some compunction. 
For some time past she had been ill at ease amid all the 
ease of her uncle’s house. With returning health the 
old determination to pursue art had reawakened, bring- 
ing with it an almost unbearable feeling of oppression 
amid the luxury and enforced idleness of her present 
sheltered existence, and she had at length decided to 
appeal to her uncle to let her go back to her former life. 

She had hesitated hitherto, knowing how he cherished 
the hope that she would remain with him ; but this, 
dearly as she loved the pleasant home and her position 
as its mistress, and much as she grieved to disappoint 
her uncle, to whom she was truly attached, she was not 
content to do. 


228 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


He had striven by every means he could think of to 
strengthen the ties that bound her to him and Otterton, 
for he had been quick to observe her growing restlessness 
and the beating of her wings against the bars of the 
gilded cage in which he would fain confine her. He had 
found for her a rival occupation and interest, for by 
making her the almoner of his bounty to the poor people 
connected with Free St. John’s he imagined that she 
would forget her wilful desire to go back to art and 
poverty — two things which were believed by Mr. Morgan 
to be inseparably connected. 

Thus Clara for the first time in her life tasted the 
divine pleasure of giving to the poor, and thereby she 
came to understand the unworldly wisdom of the words, 
* It is more blessed to give than to receive.’ 

In this way she found a new pleasure in life, and 
she had benefited greatly by her closer contact with 
humanity ; but the effect was prejudicial instead of 
helpful to her uncle’s scheme for keeping her with him, 
for, so far from congratulating herself on her exemption 
from a life of toil and poverty, she had her eyes opened 
to the seriousness of life ; and all that was best in her 
rebelled against declining upon mere ease and luxury. She 
was more than ever bent upon finding out what especial 
work God had sent her into the world to do ; and she be- 
lieved that it did not lie in Otterton at all events. 

The fact that she sometimes met Norman amid these 
scenes of sadness and reality did much to strengthen this 
resolve. She loved him as deeply as ever, and, although 
he made no sign that his love for her still survived, she 


Clara! s Confession. 229 

could not bear that he should think her a mere butterfly, 
aflutter upon the breezes of summer. 

But now her uncle’s words had given her an opening 
for the announcement of her decision to leave Otterton. 

* Uncle,’ she said gently, ‘ I wish to return to 
Edinburgh. I am quite strong now, thanks to you, and 
I am growing uneasy about being so long away from my 
work. This life of ease will unfit me for resuming it, if 
I don’t tear myself away.’ 

‘ Now, Clara, be reasonable. There is no necessity for 
you returning to work. You must just stay where you 
are. I did not tell you, did I, that I expect to get the 
plans for a studio for you next week ? You can then 
paint as much as you like ; — only stay here, for I really 
don’t believe that I could get on without you now,’ said 
her uncle with an affectionate smile. 

‘You are far too good to me, uncle, but I feel it 
impossible to remain here doing nothing.’ 

‘ Nonsense ! ’ interrupted he. * What do you mean by 
saying that you are doing nothing ? Just look at the 
thousand and one duties you manage to get through ! 
What a difference there is in the house, for instance ! 
And consider your work among the poor ! Say no more 
about going away. I cannot spare you. Besides, it is 
ridiculous for my niece to go away from her only relative 
and live by herself in an attic like a — a charwoman. 
If you only knew how much I have to worry me in the 
foundry and elsewhere, you would not grudge me the plea- 
sure and solace your presence has brought to my home.’ 

Clara was touched by this appeal. 


230 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


* Dear uncle, I would stay if I could ; but I desire to 
be independent and to follow the profession for which I 
was educated and to which I feel myself called. I 
think that in it I will find my best chance of benefiting 
others. I have given up my selfish dream of fame/ said 
Clara with a very tremulous smile. 

‘ But, dear child, why should you toil ? You are just 
like a lily that does not need either to toil or spin. I 
have abundant wealth — and I have nobody but you to 
call my own. Do not leave me.’ 

It was a strange and touching thing to see this self- 
assertive and self-reliant man thus pleading with a slip of 
a girl ; but it is only a specimen of the many incon- 
sistencies to be found in this complex human nature of 
ours. Mr. Morgan’s primitive feelings were strong, and 
now that he had for months experienced the happiness 
and charm of a woman’s presence in his home, he would 
fain secure it permanently. He saw that Clara was 
silenced by his appeal. 

‘You have little idea/ he repeated, ‘how much I 
have got to trouble me. I try to be as just as I can, 
but I have constant annoyances to endure through the 
misconduct of reckless blockheads of workmen. I am 
opposed on every hand. Even the church is getting 
unpleasant for me since that new minister came. He 
has turned out a most determined and meddlesome 
fellow, and now he is pushing forward that club project 
I told you of, although he knows very well how distasteful 
it is to me. It is extremely irritating to a man of my 
position in the town.’ 


Claras Confession . 23 1 

This was by no means the first time that Clara had 
heard her uncle give vent to his displeasure against 
Norman, but hitherto she had listened in silence. This 
morning she ventured to expostulate with him. 

* I cannot understand how any one can call Mr. Eeid 
meddlesome. I am sure that he has a good reason for 
whatever he does/ she said with a blush. 

Her uncle felt a sudden impulse of anger against her. 
Was she too going to oppose him ? But he was shrewd 
enough to perceive that it would not suit his purpose to 
lose his temper with her ; he had no desire thus to 
defeat his own object. With an effort he restrained his 
temper, but he pushed back his chair and rose from the 
breakfast-table with his radiant morning mood irre- 
coverably dissipated. 

‘ If you knew him as well as I do, my dear/ he said, 
* you would be able to endorse my words ; but young 
ladies labour under the delusion that ministers are little 
short of angelic/ 

Clara was nettled at this, and besides, she had long 
been uneasy because she had led her uncle to believe 
that she and Norman were merely acquaintances. She 
looked up with an appealing smile. 

‘ Uncle/ she said, ‘ I know him better than you 
think. I knew him well in Edinburgh. We were lovers 
once/ 

The blushes burned upon her face as she made the 
confession, while her uncle stood looking at her in dis- 
pleased surprise, wondering inly if this was a specimen 

of underhand cunning which Clara might have inherited 

20 


232 Norman Reid , M.A . 

from her rascal of a father. But her lovely, modest face 
disarmed his suspicions. 

‘ I suppose that you had a good reason for breaking 
off the engagement, if there was one ? * he inquired. 

‘ I lost his love through my own pride and folly. He 
was far too good for me,’ said Clara simply. 

Her uncle was rather taken aback at this plain speak- 
ing. He felt that it was scarcely proper for a girl to 
speak thus frankly. 

‘ Come, come, my dear. He has come over you with 
his wheedling tongue. But I am glad that the thing is 
at an end. I do not desire to force your confidence, but 
I think that you ought to have told me/ 

‘ Yes, I see now that I ought ; but pride stepped in 
there again/ said Clara penitently. ‘ I thought that he 
would not like our former relationship to each other to 
be known/ 

‘ Pooh ! He is not the man you think him. An 
inexperienced girl is not the best judge of the character 
of any man. I tell you that he is a notoriety-hunter 
and a hypocrite ’ — 

* Oh, uncle ! ’ 

‘ But he is ! In this matter of the club I cannot 
forgive him. He has deliberately tried to undermine my 
influence and to damage me in the eyes of my townsmen/ 

‘ But he may think your - interests subordinate to 
some higher end/ expostulated Clara with some show 
of resentment. 

‘You know nothing about it, my dear. We will say 
no more ; only you see how much I need you here/ said 


Claras Confession . 233 

her uncle, glancing at the timepiece. ‘ But it is post-time ; 
I must be off to the office/ 

After her uncle was gone Clara rang the bell for the 
maid to remove the breakfast equipage, and, going into 
the hall, she took her garden hat and parasol and escaped 
from the house into the green seclusion of the beech 
avenue. She wanted to be alone with her thoughts. 

As she walked up and down, pondering over the 
widening breach between her uncle and Norman, she 
foresaw trouble ahead for the latter. She had observed 
how steadily her uncle’s dislike for him had grown, until 
at last he seemed actually to have acquired a relish for 
the persecution to which — as he sometimes boasted — it 
was his duty as a ruling elder zealous for the purity of 
the church to subject the minister. Clara was thus 
rendered very unhappy. She saw with pain how gravely 
this inordinate hatred was warping her uncle’s nature, 
and she sorrowed for Norman, who had to submit as 
patiently as he could to Mr. Morgan’s persecution. She 
knew the young minister too well to believe that he had 
deliberately set himself to annoy her uncle. She had 
the fullest faith in the purity of his motives in the matter 
of the club, and, moreover, she was not blinded to the 
faults in her uncle’s character. In her visiting among 
the poor she had been obliged to hear much to his dis- 
advantage even from those who were benefited by his 
charity. He gave of his substance to them because it 
was a mark of his superiority and a respectable thing to 
do, and the recipients were quick to perceive this. With 
far different feelings did they welcome their young 


234 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


minister among them, and Clara saw it. Everywhere 
she came upon precious evidences of the affectionate 
regard in which he was held, and when she met him 
going his unassuming rounds among the poverty-stricken 
and suffering, again and again she admired and wondered 
at his devotion to his sacred calling. During the past 
months, while she had sat in her uncle’s pew and listened 
to Norman preaching, her eyes had been opened to a 
clearer discernment of the truths he expounded and 
illustrated by his own sterling Christianity; and the 
consequence was that her love for him was deepened, and 
she began to look upon him with reverence — a feeling 
which had been entirely lacking in it before. 

Her love lost its purely personal character and became 
a sacred thing. It was this that endued her with the 
impulse to benefit the poor in other ways than the con- 
ventional methods prescribed for her by her uncle ; and 
gradually her presence became eagerly longed for and wel- 
comed in many a sick-room, and her sweet voice singing 
holy psalms or timidly speaking words of heavenly 
import to the dying, became familiar music in the sad 
dwellings of want and sin that abounded in Otterton. 

Thus did Clara’s human love, purified from the dross 
of selfishness, ennoble her ; thus did it point her to the 
Divine Love — that unquenchable sun of which human 
affection is but an earth-befogged ray ; thus was she 
gently led to seek the kingdom of God. Happy is she 
to whom the gift of a pure human love has proved the 
light shining full upon the road that leads to the soul’s 
eternal home. For her is heaven begun on earth. 


235 


Claras Confession. 

And yet Clara sought no means of winning Norman 
back to her side. Her love, for the time being, sufficed 
her. It was too high and pure a thing to stoop to 
natural wiles and womanly allurements. She was 
emptied of her pride and egotism, and now she was 
content to do angels’ work below in weakness and in 
loneliness. 

Yet God was using that very weakness to perfect His 
strength. He was drawing her to Himself ; and Norman, 
whose love for her was as deep as it was patient, saw the 
spiritual meanings that were dawning on her lovely face, 
giving the soft brown eyes a gentler light and irradiating 
the quiet smile with an exquisite glow of emotion, and 
he took the sign from God with a joy unspeakable, for 
it meant to him that his beloved was at last one with him 
in soul, and now he looked forward to the happy time 
when they should greet each other, renewing their troth 
and taking upon them nobler and holier marriage vows 
than either had dreamed of. 




CHAPTER XXITI 

A LITTLE CHILD SHALL LEAD THEM.' 

Death doth make us draw together, 

Like weary birds in the wild weather. 

Till we scarcely know 
The once dread difference of feather 
We felt so much a little ago. 

Robert W. Barbour. 

is almost needless to say that from the first 
Mr. Borland, the ruling elder’s faithful 
henchman, had modelled his bearing and 
conduct towards the young minister on those 
of his chief and employer. 

During the earlier weeks of Norman’s settlement in 
Free St John’s, when Mr. Morgan could not speak too 
highly of * the excellent young man ’ of their choice, it 
had not been easy for Borland to follow suit, for Norman 
had never been a favourite with him ; and, had he not 
deemed it expedient to take his cue from the ruling 
elder in all church matters, he would even have opposed 
Norman’s election tooth and nail. 

He rejoiced, therefore, when he observed that Mr. 
Morgan, at the first sign of independent action on the 

236 



1 A Little Child shall lead them l 237 

part of the young minister, withdrew his countenance 
from him. Borland watched the change from its first 
beginnings in coldness and stiffness till its climax in the 
rancorous hostility it had by this time — the month of 
August — reached, and he added his quota of venom to 
the persecution which was being persistently w T aged 
against the minister at the session -meetings. And it 
had been a matter of satisfaction to him to discover 
at length, as he thought, a personal grievance that 
gave him a pretext for indulging the grudge he bore 
against him. 

About a fortnight after Jim’s departure for America, 
Norman had met his father in the street, and, all uncon- 
scious that he was treading on dangerous ground, had 
stopped him to inquire whether he had yet heard from 
his son. Thereupon Borland roundly charged him with 
being the main cause of Jim’s dismissal from the foundry 
and even of his leaving the country ; arguing that, if 
Norman had used his influence aright, and if he had hut 
seconded the sound advice he himself had given his son, 
and had not interfered presumptuously in the affair of 
the disposal of his invention, — a business question of 
which a minister could not be expected to have any 
practical knowledge, — Jim would have been still at 
home — a help and a credit to his family, instead of 
having been forced into the vagabond career of an 
emigrant. 

In vain Norman represented that all he had counselled 
Jim to do was to take advice from those who were com- 
petent to give it — a thing which he did not pretend to 


238 Norman Reid \ M.A . 

be able to do — and thereafter to obey the dictates of his 

conscience. 

Borland — who doubtless considered that conscience 
should be taught to know its place in matters strictly 
commercial — would not listen to Norman ; he proceeded 
to accuse him of setting children against their parents 
and of undermining the foundations of parental authority. 
He further asserted that in the matter of religion, instead 
of urging upon Jim the propriety and advantage of con- 
necting himself with the church, Norman had as good 
as told him that it did not make any great difference 
whether he went to church or not ; and as for Jessie ! — 
since she at her mother’s desire had called upon him at 
the Manse, seeking for spiritual guidance, she was, if 
possible, more flighty and unsettled in her convictions 
than before ! 

From these more personal grievances Borland pro- 
ceeded to ‘ cleanse his stuffed bosom of the perilous stuff ’ 
of his general dissatisfaction with Norman as the minister 
of Free St. John’s. There are always such over-zealous 
busybodies in connection with a large congregation, and 
woe betide the minister who finds himself, like the un- 
willing wedding-guest in ‘ The Ancient Mariner,’ button- 
holed by the ‘ skinny hand ’ and transfixed by the 
‘ glittering eye ’ of any such most persistent bore. 

According to Borland, the minister neglected to preach 
the good old solid doctrines of the Catechism ; he did not 
give a true and full presentation of God’s character; he 
made salvation a thing far too easy of attainment. 
Altogether, in the estimation of this big-little man, 


1 A Little Child shall lead them.' 


239 


Norman’s religion was far too light and gay, and did not 
impart to the demeanour and character of the young 
people especially that sobriety and gravity which should 
distinguish true Christians ; and he was good enough to 
tell Norman plainly that whatever popularity he had 
was among the young, and that he owed it entirely to 
this easy and shallow religion ; and he begged to 
remind him — this with much acrimony of speech — that 
these foolish young people contributed little or nothing 
to the church funds ; and he added further — for his 
budget of grievances was as miscellaneous as the contents 
of a beggar’s wallet — that the new minister was fast 
alienating the heads of families by his lax teaching, and 
shocking the richer members by his ignorant champion- 
ship of the poor and disreputable. And yet this was a 
working man and a professed follower of the humble 
Carpenter of Nazareth ! 

Norman might well listen with shame and sorrow to 
this sordid ‘ stoop o’ the kirk,’ who, after m'aking a bitter 
complaint that the collections on the Sabbaths were 
beginning to dwindle, concluded his tirade with a text- 
besprinkled exhortation in which he called upon Norman 
to reverse his system of preaching, lest he should quickly 
bring prosperous Free St. John’s to ruin. 

Norman defended himself with considerable spirit, but 
there was just sufficient truth in some of the above 
accusations to make him feel them very keenly and 
attach an exaggerated importance to them. The 
attendance of the older people and the amount of the 
church-door collections had undoubtedly been smaller of 
21 


240 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


late, but that was due to circumstances which had no 
connection with his preaching. 

For one thing, the heat had become almost unbearable, 
and, as the church was insufficiently ventilated, it was as 
much as the young and strong could do to endure the 
oppressive atmosphere ; and, moreover, trade was at a 
low ebb in Otterton. Two of the largest employers of 
labour had lately become bankrupt and been compelled 
to close their works, while several other factories were 
on short time, the consequence being that some hundreds 
of people were thrown out of employment and many 
more were earning reduced wages. 

Affairs in Otterton had indeed come to a pretty 
miserable pass ; and towards the end of July the cul- 
minating point of wretchedness was reached when there 
broke out a rapidly-spreading epidemic of low fever in 
the Waterside district, induced by the prolonged season 
of heat and drought combined with the effluvia that 
arose from the almost stagnant waters of the Otter, no 
means of flushing which had as yet been discovered 
notwithstanding the frequent recurrence of such seasons. 

Norman had intended to take a month’s holidays 
during August— for he stood greatly in need of a short 
period of rest wherein to recruit his jaded energies — and 
to spend them quietly at Rothesay with his mother, but 
now he felt himself compelled to remain at his post and 
do what he could to comfort and relieve the families 
stricken with the fever. 

All through the sultry days the sun beat down upon 
the crowded and stifling dwellings ; and in the evenings, 


'A Little Child shall lead them! 241 

when the inhabitants languidly lounged at their doors to 
obtain fresher air, their lungs were poisoned by the 
pestilential vapours from the sluggish stream. It was 
a wretched time, for numbers of unemployed men and 
girls hung about, and the lurking fever found an easy 
prey in their half-starved, emaciated frames. 

Norman, of course, was not alone in his ministry of 
mercy, for, besides the regular doctors and ministers of 
the town, there were many men and women who nobly 
volunteered their services during this time of necessity. 

In an emergency such as this, Norman was no stickler 
for ‘ church etiquette ; ’ he went in and out among the 
afflicted people, regardless whether they belonged to his 
own or indeed to any congregation, for his sympathies 
were as non-conservative as the rain which blesses with 
its impartial showers broad fields and trim gardens, nor 
disdains to refresh the tiniest ragged vetch that climbs 
the dusty hedges of the highway. 

Among the first to be prostrated by the fever was the 
wife of llobert Borland. 

One morning he was awakened by a low moaning 
from his sleeping wife. He was a kind if somewhat 
stern husband, and the thought that perhaps * the 
mistress * was taking the fever chilled him with a great 
dread. He gently awoke her. 

‘ Mary/ said he, ‘ what ails ye ? * 

* Is it time to get up, Bobert ? My heid is heavy/ 
she said, raising herself feebly upon her elbow, but 
immediately sinking back with a moan. ‘I doot I’m 
no’ able to get up/ 


2\2 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


‘No’ able to get up! You’re no’ gaun to be ill, 
surely ! * exclaimed the husband in consternation. 

‘ No’ if I can help it, Robert/ said she with a wan 
smile. ‘ If I had a cup of tea ’ — 

* Here, Jessie, Jessie, get your mother a cup of tea as 
fast as you can!’ cried he, walking across the floor and 
opening the door to shout to his daughter in the kitchen. 
He was thoroughly alarmed. He could not recollect a 
time when his active wife had been thus indisposed. 

‘ Lie doon, Mary/ he said in a softer tone than usual 
as he straightened the coverlet with clumsy hands. ‘ We 
canna afford to hae ye ill, my bonnie woman.’ 

The doctor was sent for and he pronounced the illness 
to be a case of fever, and before night the heart of the 
husband was wrung by the frenzied ravings that fell 
from the lips of his prostrate wife. 

How pathetic they were — those petty cares which still 
dominated the weary brain of the overworked wife and 
mother ! The husband sat by her bedside in the silent 
watches of the hot night, listening with a swelling heart 
to the tale of the constant succession of small worries 
comprised in the lot of the average working man’s wife, 
— the unfinished ironing, the undarned socks lying in 
the overflowing work - basket, the little frocks and 
pinafores whereon she frantically wrought in her 
delirium. All the common every-day cares of the home 
haunted her fever-stricken brain, and were tragic and no 
longer trivial in the ears of the listening husband. 

Norman, who saw no reason why his difference with 
her husband should keep him from visiting the sick 


'A Little Child shall lead them! 243 

woman, called on the day after he had heard of her 
illness, and Borland, subdued by the presence of distress 
in his house, gave him a shamefaced welcome, inwardly 
respecting Norman for thus ignoring everything except 
the gracious charity which * suffereth long and is kind. 

He was constant in his attendance during the weary 
days that followed, and because the poor wife looked 
forward to his visits her husband was glad to see the 
young minister’s tall form darken his door. Many 
comforts were introduced into the sick-room by Norman 
in such an unassuming manner that the husband could 
not resent his kindness, and with satisfaction Norman 
at length perceived that Borland’s ill-will was passing 
away. 

At last the fever reached its crisis, and, after a night 
of anxious watching, the pale, spent mother crept back 
out of the dread ‘ valley of the shadow of death.’ But 
now the insatiable fever seized upon the youngest 
member of the house — the mother’s darling, little three- 
year- old Bobert, — dear also to the undemonstrative father 
because he was his name-son and a merry little fellow 
who showed less awe of him than any other of his children. 
The little one took the fever, and this time death would 
not be balked of his prey. 

Ah, why should this pen of mine lacerate the hearts 
of the many mothers who know the grief of losing a 
little child by detailing the mournful story of the illness 
and death of ‘Wee Bobin,’ as he was fondly called ? Do 
not they know the sorrow by experience ? And to those 
happy mothers who know it not, no words of mine would 


244 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


be powerful enough to make them realise the terrible 
blank left in a mother’s bosom by such a loss. 

This poor mother sat alone, pale and weak from her 
recent illness, filling the silence of the death-chamber 
with the tearless moaning of intense grief ; gazing 
dumbly upon the tiny waxen figure which was no more 
her merry little son ; trying with a yearning heart to 
follow his baby-flight into the unknown ; bending with 
lips that faltered into endearments that now were power- 
less to bring a smile into the still face that had never 
before failed to dimple into laughter beneath the tender 
mother-kisses. But now he lay unresponsive and far 
away from the need of her love. 

Oh, mothers whose mourning lips have been touched 
with the live coal from off this ever-burning altar of pain, 
take heart, for that pain will become to you a key to 
unlock the gates of heaven ! * Where your treasure is, 

there will your heart be also,’ and you are blessed among 
women, inasmuch as you possess a child for ever young, 
awaiting you Beyond ! 

Throughout the days when this household had been 
thus sorely made acquainted with grief, Norman had 
come and gone — a welcome visitor. The mother could 
tell of many tender words of comfort and helpfulness 
which he had spoken, of many prayers sent forth from 
his pitiful heart to God for her and her family; and 
Jessie also participated in the benefits of this time of 
grief. She was subdued into unwonted quietness and 
thoughtfulness, and she perseveringly set herself to per- 
form the many household duties which were too arduous 


‘ A Little Child shall lead them. 245 

as yet to be undertaken by her mother’s feeble hands. 
She kept the children quiet and attended to her father, 
pleased and rewarded if a smile or a word of encourage- 
ment from Norman fell to her share. 

She began to apprehend that there was something 
better worth living for than self with all its indul- 
gences, whether spiritual or carnal. She pondered 
over and obtained occasional glimpses of the meaning 
of that little word but mighty principle of action — 
duty. 

And as she watched with growing reverence the efforts 
that the young minister made to help not only those in 
her own home but also the many fever-stricken people 
around the doors, she was touched with a passionate 
desire to emulate the example thus set before her. Poor 
girl, she had yet to be led by the painful path of personal 
suffering into the narrow way wherein the humble-minded 
only can safely walk. 

Borland’s heart had been thoroughly softened and 
changed towards Norman, and on the night before little 
Bobin was to be carried to his grave, he spoke to the 
minister, who was present in the house. 

‘ Mr. Beid,’ he said, standing up in the dimly lighted 
room, where upon a white-draped table stood the tiny 
coffin, ‘ ye hae dune to me and mine what few men, let 
them be ministers or no’, wad hae dune in the circum- 
stances. Ye cam’ here like the Lord Himsel’ into the 
hoose 0’ ane that reviled ye, and I want to tell ye that 
never mair will I open my mouth to speak against sic a 
servant o’ God. Forget my words in the street and at 


246 


Norman Reid, M.A. 


the session-meetin’s, sir, and gie me your hand as a token 
o’ forgiveness ower the little chap’s coffin.’ 

Norman held out his hand, and his eyes grew moist. 

4 Ah, friend,’ he said, f sorrow and death bring men 
very near to the eternal realities. All the petty differ- 
ences which have such a power to sting the worldly 
heart and keep us apart, fall away from us then. I am 
glad to shake hands with you in this sacred presence.’ 

4 Sir, sir ! ye heap “ coals o’ fire ” upon my heid ! ’ said 
Borland in a voice from which tears were not very far 
away. 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

A STORMY MEETING. 

Often a man’s own angry prido 
Is cap and bells for a fool. Tennyson. 

0 him who bravely puts his shoulder to the 
wheel and moves, if but by an inch, the rut- 
stayed vehicle that carries the true and 
manifold interests of his little world, is given 
the divine consciousness that he is working in the line 
of progress, order, and ultimate perfection. His strength 
is founded upon a rock even although his outer man 
pursues its way in weakness and disappointment among 
his fellows. 

It was well for Xorman that he had this inner strength, 
for troubles were fast thickening around him and his 
physical strength was well-nigh spent. 

It is true that his quiet and unremitting labours 
among the fever-stricken people of the Waterside had 
given him — in their eyes at least — the aspect of a 
ministering angel and a ‘brother beloved/ and that 
many a warm hand-clasp from kind-hearted people and 
many a cheerful word of approbation came like beams of 

247 



248 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


blessed sunshine athwart his darkening sky, but his heart 
was often sore within him because of the unrelaxing 
hostility of Mr. Morgan and his followers. 

It had gathered virulence as the days went on, and 
now by this time — the end of August — it had assumed 
such proportions as rendered the stray sunshine of good- 
will a mere ineffectual light to show the breadth and 
gloom of the gathering clouds. 

No outward silence could heal the wound of that 
relentless and strange enmity, and the young minister 
had for his only support the all-sustaining ‘ angels’ food ’ 
with which God feeds His faithful servants in the desert. 

As for Mr. Morgan — if we may take the liberty of 
trying to read his thoughts as he walked in his garden 
one evening at this time — he had rolled his animosity so 
long ‘ like a sweet morsel under his tongue/ that its first 
agreeable flavour had given place to the underlying and 
native bitterness of such a state of feeling. 

The very mention of the young minister’s name was 
an offence to him, and, like the presentation of the pro- 
verbial red rag to the bull, was at all times sufficient to 
rouse him to a perfect fury of rage. He had actually 
brought himself to believe that the dignified silence or 
occasional mild protests with which Norman met all his 
assaults were but the tactics of one who wanted to make 
the most of the opportunities afforded him of posing as 
a martyr, for by this time Mr. Morgan’s hostility had 
become a matter of notoriety in the town, and its latest 
developments were openly discussed. 

Now, the ruling elder was keenly alive to the value of 


249 


A Stormy Meeting . 

public opinion ; he lived in the belief that all he said and 
did was of importance in the eyes of his townsmen, and 
their good opinion was absolutely necessary to him. But 
now he had reason to suspect that the breath of popular 
appreciation was being succeeded by a wind of adverse 
criticism, and he noticed this more especially in the 
session-meetings, where his persecution of the young 
minister had become so openly persistent that it disgusted 
and disquieted those of the members not of his following. 

Although the knowledge that this was so seemed to 
goad Mr. Morgan into an even more forcible expression 
of his enmity, in his heart he felt dismayed at the 
demoralisation that the cherished hatred was rapidly 
working within him. Nothing now gave pleasure to 
his soul ; the Sabbath services in which he was wont 
spiritually to revel, the prayer, the reading of the Word, 
the meetings in connection with Free St. John’s — all 
were now ‘flat, stale, and unprofitable’ to the once 
fervid elder, and he was haunted at times by a feeling 
as of coming retribution. 

The masterful man, in fact, had lost the mastery of 
himself. He had given over the reins of management 
to the devil ; and once a man does that, he thinks little 
of overleaping whatever opposing obstacles his rebellious 
conscience may for a time raise to stay his headlong 
course to perdition. 

And now he had reached the point of considering how 
this ministerial bugbear could be removed out of his 
path. He felt that a climax in hig relationship to 
Norman was fast approaching. 


250 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


Either the minister must be made to feel Otterton too 
hot for him, or — but what the alternative was he had 
not decided on, for at that moment the sound of voices 
passing on the other side of the garden wall attracted 
his attention. 

‘ Auld Harry ower the wa’ there is showin’ the cloven 
hoof now for a’ his great to-do aboot religion/ said one 
voice. ‘ He’ll sune mak’ the place brimstane hot for the 
new minister, if somebody doesna hinder him/ 

‘Just hooly a wee/ responded the other. ‘Mr. Eeid 
has a friend even at Brimstane Ha’, or I’m mista’en. 
They say that Miss Porteous 

The speakers passed on, leaving Mr. Morgan in a new 
rage of hatred against Norman. Could there be any 
truth in what they had implied about Clara ? he wondered. 
Was it possible that she had deceived him when she told 
him that all was over between herself and Mr. Eeid ? 
That a niece of his should have her name thus bandied 
about in public gossip ! The thought was unbearable. 
And, after all, he knew so little about her ; she might 
be underhand and deceitful like her father— and her 
mother , he added, wincing under the thought. 

The fellow must not be allowed to remain in Otterton, 
that much was abundantly plain. He — Mr. Morgan — 
would at once press before the Presbytery the charge of 
heterodoxy, and he would substantiate it too ! Borland 
and some others would help him to do that. Thus would 
he rid himself of the minister’s hateful presenee. The 
fellow actually made him feel like a savage. Then his 
peace of mind and his popularity would return. Once 


A Stormy Meeting. 251 

more he would be the religious and zealous ruling elder, 
the unexceptional master among his men, the important, 
powerful citizen. 

He entered the hall briskly, and hanging up his 
garden -hat on the rack, replaced it by a more formal 
headgear, and with staff in hand and an extra swing of 
his substantial shoulders, he took his way along the 
populous Waterside and up through Queen Street to the 
session-house of Free St. John’s, to take his place at a 
meeting about to be held. 

Norman had come thither mainly because he intended 
to make to the members of session an appeal which, 
although he was well aware that it would be very dis- 
tasteful to Mr. Morgan, his strong sense of the urgent 
necessity of the situation forbade him to leave unspoken. 
He shrank with more than usual repugnance from the 
prospect of encountering the elder’s opposition. The 
heavy work of the past month and the saddening duties 
in connection with the fever epidemic had almost broken 
down his strong health, and that evening he was exceed- 
ingly worn-out and despondent ; therefore he would 
gladly have deferred this painful duty, especially as he 
very soon became aware that Mr. Morgan’s animosity was 
directed against him with an added barb of acrimony. 

Others present at the meeting also noted this, and in 
the minds of several gentlemen a strong feeling of indig- 
nation towards Mr. Morgan was silently asserting itself. 

It had been long felt to be a cruel and unfair perse- 
cution springing from a personal animus, and on that 
evening, although the wily elder was careful to preface 


252 Norman Reid , M.A. 

his attack with an apologetic reference to his well-known 
zeal for the church, much feeling against him was 
smouldering in the meeting ; for Norman’s noble and 
indefatigable labours among the fever-stricken, and his 
countless deeds of charity, were well known to many 
gentlemen present. 

At length the formal business of the evening was 
concluded, and Norman, rising to his feet, looked round 
and said, — 

* Gentlemen, before we separate, I have an appeal to 
make. As you know, the epidemic is still spreading 
and there is a great deal of distress and poverty among 
the people. I think that we should organise a relief 
fund for providing the most necessitous families with 
medicine and food. I know that many will be glad to 
give of their abundance for such an object, and I have 
therefore drawn out a list of these most necessitous 
cases.’ 

He placed on the table before him a slip of paper, 
and Mr. Morgan, reaching forth his hand, picked it up. 

After looking over it a moment in silence he glanced 
up indignantly, holding the paper at arm’s length, and, 
pointing to the name that headed the list, he exclaimed, — 

‘ This Latto — he is a free-thinker, an atheist, a propa- 
gandist of infidel opinions, a pest to the town. Is that 
the sort of man you expect us to help, Mr. Reid ? ’ 

‘ He will not be a pest to the town much longer. He 
is dying,’ replied Norman solemnly, ‘ and he leaves six 
little children upon the world. Why should we judge 
him ? Let us leave him to an all-comprehending God.’ 


253 


A Stormy Meeting . 

* God will give him a well-merited portion of hell-fire ! 
How dare you make light of the judgments of God — 
you, a minister of the gospel ? * 

There was a movement among the assembled gentle- 
men and a murmur of dissent. But Mr. Morgan 
continued, — 

1 What is this ? Robert Reyburn’s family ! Really, 
Mr. Reid, you are going too far. You can scarcely 
expect me or any other employer of labour here to help 
a man who has been dismissed from my works for in- 
subordination. He is a drunken, dissolute fellow ! ’ 

‘ But Christian charity should ignore small personal 
considerations/ rejoined Norman. 

‘ Small personal considerations ! The fellow is the 
bane of my existence. He puts himself in my way on 
purpose to annoy me ; he makes mischief among the 
men ; and yet you call this a small personal consideration ! 
What do you know of the daily worries of business men ? 
But it is just like you to balk me at every turn ! * ex- 
claimed Mr. Morgan with bitter emphasis. ‘ You have 
contrived to lessen my influence in the church, and you 
use every means in your power to thwart and aggravate 
me. You were the means of stirring up strife in my 
foundry soon after your coming. Mr. Borland here * — he 
turned impetuously towards Robert Borland, who sat 
behind him with his eyes fixed on the floor — ‘will 
corroborate my statement ; you instigated his son in his 
rebellion against authority, you were the chief cause of his 
disgraceful conduct. Speak, Borland ! * cried he in a frenzy 
of rage. ' You were glib enough to me about the affair ! * 


254 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


* I am sorry that ever I uttered a word against Mr. 
Reid/ said Borland in a clear, slow voice. ‘ I apologised 
to him for it over the coffin of my little child, and I am 
glad of this chance of making a more public acknowledg- 
ment of my regret and injustice/ 

Norman lifted his bowed head and looked at Borland 
gratefully. 

‘ What, sir ! you have turned your coat ? * cried the 
angry elder. ‘ What have you to gain by it, I should 
like to know ? Not wages or work, at any rate. I 
suppose that Mr. Reid has cajoled you into ’ — 

4 Gentlemen, I appeal to you all to protect me from 
this outrageous attack ! ’ interposed Norman, fronting the 
meeting indignantly. * I came among you, sent by God, 
as I believe, to work for Him, and I fear no man as long 
as He approves of my conduct. But this evening I am 
not feeling well enough to submit to such a gratuitous 
display of the rancorous hostility which is poisoning my 
life here. It takes the very heart out of me!’ 

Norman stopped abruptly and sat down in a chair, over- 
come for the moment, as a murmur of sympathy fell 
upon his ears. Angry looks were cast at the heated 
visage of Mr. Morgan, who stood stiff and tall against 
the door, glaring at Norman. 

‘ I’ll stand by you, Mr. Reid ! * said a member of 
session, stepping forward to Norman’s side. ‘ We can no 
longer tolerate such unseemly and tyrannical procedure 
on the part even of Mr. Morgan. We are indebted to 
him in many ways, but he is going beyond his province 
thus to attack you and push himself forward as the 


A Stormy Meeting. 255 

spokesman of the session. He is not our mouthpiece ! * 
continued the gentleman with quiet energy. * More good 
has been done by you, Mr. Reid, during the short time 
you have been here than I have seen done in Otterton 
the whole thirty years I have lived in it. You can make 
use of my purse in these necessitous cases ; — these poor 
people owe much to you. We are proud of you, and 
may you be long spared to work among us. Do not let 
this temporary annoyance drive you away. We shall 
tolerate no more of such unseemly and unmerited perse- 
cution here/ 

The words were like balm to Norman’s wounded spirit. 

‘ I also will be glad to help you, Mr. Reid,’ said a second 
gentleman, quietly putting his name down for a donation 
and passing the paper round with a nod. Several gentle- 
men rapidly followed his example, and Mr. Morgan, 
feeling completely baffled and set aside, opened the door 
of the session-house, and, turning to Norman, shook his 
fist at him in almost speechless passion. 

‘ I’ll make you answer for this ! ’ he at last exclaimed ; 
‘ and you too, sir 1 ’ he added, wheeling round to the 
gentleman who had so warmly and conspicuously 
espoused Norman’s cause. * You are all leagued together 
against me ; but I will appeal to the Presbytery to make 
a strict inquiry into the purity and orthodoxy of the pulpit 
ministrations in Free St. John’s. Mark my words ! ’ 

So saying he passed out of the meeting, followed by 
some slight hissing, and soon thereafter the gentlemen 
dispersed, taking leave of Norman with many warm 
assurances of their esteem. 


22 



CHAPTER XXV. 

DE PROFUNDIS! 

O fear not in a world like this, 

And thou shalt know ere long, 

Know how sublime a thing it is 

To suffer and be strong. Longfeltow. 

'HOUGH Norman had so manfully held his 
own against his accuser in the session-house, 
the parting threat flung after him by the 
infuriated elder weighed on his spirits as 
he walked homeward down the Waterside. 

He had had a long and saddening day among the 
fever-stricken people, and the exciting scene in the 
session-house had left him faint and dizzy with emotion. 
He almost staggered among the withered tufts of herbage 
and sun-bleached stones of the parched and arid road. 

He drew his hand helplessly across his hot brow. He 
wondered if he was going to take the fever, — that would 
account for the strange feeling of giddiness and nausea 
that again assailed him. 

Slow tears welled into his weary eyes as he stumbled 
on, thoroughly unmanned. His courage failed him, his 
very faith wavered. 



250 


257 


De Profundis ! 

* 0 God, why am I persecuted so vindictively ? 
Have I not done all for Thee ? ’ he demanded in pas- 
sionate prayer as his gaze sought the lurid, rainless 
sky. 

He bowed himself upon the railing of the low and 
rickety wooden bridge that spanned the Otter at the foot 
of the Waterside, and for a moment resigned himself to 
despair. The bed of the stream was almost dry, and 
among the foetid ooze and the whitened stones lay rank 
pools of stagnant water. He moved uneasily as he 
breathed the noxious odour, and, lifting his head, he 
allowed his eyes to travel wearily along the twin rows 
of houses. 

On the doors of the fever-stricken houses a red cross 
had been daubed by order of the Local Authority, and 
mechanically Norman commenced to count the ominous 
symbols, dimly discernible through the gathering dusk. 

* Six more since last night ! * he muttered. * If the 
rain delays much longer, the Waterside will be full of 
dead people/ 

The faint click of a loom reached his ears — it was the 
significant sign of a dying industry ; a woman’s wailing 
cry sounded along the silent way ; a few languid children 
dabbled sticks to stir the rats from their slimy refuges in 
the banks of the Otter. 

‘ “ My days are swifter than a weaver’s shuttle, and are 
spent without hope,” ’ said Norman drearily. ‘ This is a 
God-forgotten place.’ 

Suddenly the earth seemed to vibrate beneath his feet; 
there was a distinct rumbling noise far up the Otter, and 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


258 

as he gazed, startled and vaguely afraid, he saw afar a 
frantic horseman bounding along the northern bank of 
the river, bearing aloft a streaming red flag. As 
he drew nearer, Norman heard his voice shouting in 
deep and loud monotony, ‘ The water’s cornin’ doon ! ’ 
‘ The water’s cornin’ doon ! ’ was his cry as he rushed 
along ; and lo ! there by his side, fast outstripping his 
desperately -galloping horse, rolled and thundered an 
immense brown wall of foam-flecked w’ater ! A water- 
spout had burst in the hills where the Otter had its 
source, and now its narrow and shallow channel was 
overflowing to its sloping banks. 

‘ Off the brig, man ! You’ll be swept awa’ ! * yelled the 
horseman as he flashed past Norman, who stood on the 
bridge astonished and almost overpowered by the intense 
effluvia which rushed along with the disturbed water. 
He felt the wooden structure trembling beneath him as 
the flood struck it, and he had barely time to reach the 
bank when, with a wrench and a shriek of parting 
timbers, it was whirled down the stream. 

The inhabitants of the Waterside, roused by the cries 
of the messenger as he rode past, hurried out of doors, 
snatching the children who were playing on the banks of 
the stream. They stood aghast before the impetuous 
flood, and waited on the edge of the swirling, filthy 
waters to see if they could not save some of the floating 
treasure. From the fields far up the Otter there came 
tossing hayricks and stately trees. Countless objects of 
value went floating past. Hencoops with their ruffled 
occupants, pigs sorely dismayed, and bleating sheep, too 


259 


De Profundis ! 

terrified to allow themselves to be rescued by the out- 
stretched hands of rope - encircled men, were hurried 
onward to destruction. 

It was an hour of terrible elemental power, and 
Norman stood appalled, praying inly that human lives 
might not be sacrificed, when, looking up the river, he 
saw rapidly gliding downward an upturned, ghastly 
face, half-concealed by swaying masses of long black 
hair. 

‘ My God ! it is a woman ! * he cried, tearing off his 
coat and shoes and plunging into the river. His 
nervous arms frantically divided the flood as he swam 
against the current towards the floating figure. He was 
almost too late, but, as it was being borne past at 
lightning speed, he made a desperate effort and caught 
hold of a strand of the streaming hair, and then rescued 
and rescuer alike were swept onward together past the 
shouting crowds on the green, receding banks of the 
mighty river. 

The sudden pain caused by his grasp seemed to have 
averted the moment of death for the poor creature he 
held. 

‘ Let me droon ! ye’d better let me droon ! * she 
gasped ere once more she sank into unconsciousness. 

4 Jessie, Jessie ! Oh, is it you ? * cried Norman, 
horrified. He rapidly looked down the stream. He 
noticed a projecting alder tree, which he knew stood 
right opposite the Manse garden-wall, and as he and his 
helpless burden were gliding past he blindly caught hold 
of the swaying boughs. Thank God ! they sustained the 


26 o 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


strain thus put upon them. He paused an instant to 
concentrate his fast-failing strength, and then with a 
superhuman effort he dragged his burden on to the grass 
beyond the margin of the flood, wondering vaguely if 
Jessie was dead as he sank fainting by her side. 

When he recovered consciousness he found himself 
lying in his own bed at home, in the luxurious stillness 
of the night. 

The rain had come at last and was beating against 
the streaming window with an ever-increasing vehemence, 
and the wind was driving a tempest of rain-swept boughs 
against the panes. 

Soon the door of his room was gently opened and 
Katie approached his bed, peering into the fire-lit gloom 
with an anxious face. He smiled and put out his hand 
as she bent over him. Katie grasped it wflth a sob of 
relief. 

* Oh, Norman, my ain bairn ! * she exclaimed, forgetful 
of the years that had gone since last she had called him 
by that endearing name. ‘ What for did you risk your 
life ? Was there naebody but you to jump into that 

awfu’ water ? What wad I hae said to your mither gin 

ye had been ’ — She broke off with another sob. 

He drew the faithful old face gently down and kissed 
the wrinkled cheek. 

‘But I’m not drowned, Katie/ he said. ‘Is Jessie 
dead ? ’ 

‘ God forbid ! Ye hae saved her life. She’s lyin’ on 
the parlour sofa, whingin’ to see ye, although I telt 

her that ye were mair dead than olive on her accoont. 


26 i 


De Profundis ! 

She keeps sayin’ that she maun see ye, and she's like to 
gang fair demented. Puir thing ! it’s a miracle to see her 
livin’,’ added Katie with compunction. 

‘ I must see her, I suppose/ said Norman wearily. 

‘ Have you told her people that she is here ? ’ 

‘Yes, I sent word at ance ; and sair put aboot auld 
Borland was when he cam’ and saw her lyin’ so white 
and drookit. It’s my opinion he’s something on his 
conscience aboot her. I’ve sma’ faith in men-folk whase 
piety rins to roarin’ i’ the prayers as his does. The 
Lord’s no’ deaf that ever I heard tell o’ ; He disna need 
to be roared at as gin He was a foreigner that doesna 
understand a decent language. Borland’s lassie has been 
misguided at hame, I wadna wonder ; and I jist took it 
upon me to tell her father that he was to let her mither 
ken that Jessie wad bide wi’ me the nicht ; she’s no’ fit 
to gang oot ower the door.’ 

* You were quite right, Katie. I think you had 
better tell her that I will see her in about an hour. Be 
kind to her, Katie.’ 

‘ Hoot awa’, Norman ! I wadna hurt the silly 
lammie. But I wish she had been saved by some 
ither body and at some ither body’s door. I wish 
ye mayna be the waur o’ this,’ said she as she left 
the room. 

It was with an effort that Norman rose, and, shaking 
off his increasing languor, sought Jessie in the parlour. 
His head was full of strange noises, and his hands 
trembled as he fumbled with the handle of the door. 
He entered the room, but he was only half- conscious of 


262 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


Jessie’s wistful eyes and tear-stained face as he took her 
hand encouragingly and sat down by the sofa on which 
she reclined. 

‘ I’ll tell ye everything ! * she cried impetuously. 

* Dinna think I wanted to droon mysel’, although I said 
yon to ye ! Oh, help me to be better ! help me to be 
guid ! will ye no’ ? for I’ve been so near death that 
a’thing looks different noo.’ 

Norman tried to soothe her, but he shrank from the 
excited mood of this poor distressed girl who demanded so 
much from him — who looked to him for guidance with 
such a passionate faith, such a passionate need in her 
eyes. 

‘ I’ll tell ye everything,* she repeated. * I hinna been 
at the dressmakin’ a’ week because o’ wee Robin’s death, 
and this efternune I gaed oot and left my mither in the 
hoose her lane. I tried to bide in, but I couldna — no, I 
could n a, for I was feared when she grat low in to hersel’ 
and gaed aboot gatherin’ Robin’s toys to put them oot o’ 
sicht ; an’ ance she cried loud when she saw his shoon 
lyin’ beside his wooden horsie, and I couldna bear it, 
and I gaed oot and awa’ to the plantin’ whaur it was 
green and bonnie, and there I fell in wi’ John Logan. 
I made nae tryst, for I didna ken I wad be there mysel’ ; 
but he was kind to me, and I forgot the time, until the 
sun gaed down and it was on the edge o’ the mirk. 
Then I was feared to gang hame, for I kent that my 
father wad be in frae the meetin’. But I summoned up 
courage at last, and when I cam’ to the door my father 
was waitin’ for me and he shut the door in my face, 


De Profundis l 263 

and telt me to gang whaur I cam’ frae, for I was a dis- 
grace to him/ — poor Jessie’s voice was almost incoherent 
with sobbing ; — ‘ he said I was a disgrace to him, for I 
had been seen walkin’ i’ the plantin’ wi’ John Logan, 
and wee Eobin jist twa days in his grave and my 
mother ill. So I turned awa’ to cross the steppin’- 
stanes to my grannie’s house, and when I was aboot 
the middle o’ the ford, the water cam’ doon ! ’ 

She paused with a shudder and looked out at the rain- 
blurred window and the gathering night. In the silence 
the hoarse rush of the Otter could be heard, and Jessie’s 
throat swelled with a convulsive movement as if once 
more she felt the suffocating waters overwhelming her. 
Norman listened to her story with pity, and, conscious of 
his sympathy, she went on, — 

‘ Oh, Mr. Eeid, believe me, I’m no’ sae bad as folk wad 
hae me. I’m senseless, I’m vain and thochtless, as I’ve 
been often telt, but I’m no’ sae bad as my father thinks ; 
and so, when I was lifted aff my feet by the spate, I 
thocht that the water wad end a’ my troubles and that 
surely God wad be kinder to me than my father and the 
lassies in the workroom whaur I sew. They laugh 
because I’m a Salvationist, ye ken.’ 

‘ Poor child ! ’ said Norman huskily ; ‘ how you have 
suffered ! Could you not have told your mother of youi 
troubles ? ’ 

Jessie shook her head. 

* No I couldna. I dinna ken why, but I couldna. 
It’s no’ but that she’s guid and kind — but I can tell 
you ,’ she said, looking at him through falling tears with 

•23 


264 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


a mute acknowledgment of the unseen bond of sympathy 
between herself and the young minister. 

Strange enigma of our human nature ! To think 
that a daughter can feel so far away from the tenderest 
mother’s heart, and that the eye of a stranger may be 
privileged to look behind the veil of a repentant soul, 
which could never reveal itself to its nearest and 
dearest ! God help those among us who seek sympathy 
on paths strewn with danger. 

But Jessie was safe enough in her confidant. She 
had not erred here, for Norman felt all too keenly for 
the complex sorrows of humanity, and he knew how 
to deal with her perplexity. 

Gradually he succeeded in subduing her violent grief, 
and he prayed with her, knowing that the poor tossed 
soul was safe only in the heavenly Father’s care. Again 
and again she repeated her simple desire. 

* I want to be guid. Tell me hoo to be guid ! Tell 
me what I maun do to be different from what I hae 
been ! ’ she kept crying. 

* Do every little duty that lies to your hand. That 
will help you on the narrow way,’ said Norman. ‘ Help 
your mother as much as you can. Let those at home 
see that you are sorry for the past and that you are 
trying to do your duty. You are very young ; let the 
terrible experience of to-day mould your life for good. 
I think it will. I trust you and believe that you will 
make this experience a ladder by which you will climb 
to higher paths of progress. Pray often, for prayer is 
the food of the soul.’ 


De ProfuncLis ! 265 

* Oh, you are kind tome!’ said Jessie ; ‘ and I will do 
what you tell me, if you will only give me a word of 
encouragement when you think I am wearyin’ by the 
way.’ She clung pathetically to this spontaneous human 
sympathy ; to her it was as yet more real and com- 
prehensible than the distant divine care. 

* I will pray for you. I will do what I can/ replied 

Norman a little wearily. * Only remember, Jessie, that 
you have an omnipotent friend in heaven.’ » 

‘Yes, I know/ said she with a helpless sob ; ‘ but the 
lassies will jeer me when they hear what has happened 
the day. I wish I didna mind them, but it mak’s me 
mad.’ 

Norman sighed. How could he impress for good this 
unstable, self-tormenting heart ? 

‘Jessie/ he said somewhat sternly, ‘you must bear 
that too, if God demands it of you. The Christian life 
is not possible for those who seek their own ease and 
pleasure. You must learn to suffer for His sake who 
“ when He was reviled opened not His mouth.” He bore 
the cross for you, and if you would be a worthy follower 
of Him, you must learn to deny yourself — you must not 
think of your own selfish pleasure. But a higher 
happiness will be given you. Your path will be cheered 
with many blessings if with all your heart you truly seek 
God’s guidance. And . now good-night. Be comforted, 
Jessie, and trust Him.* 

‘ Good-night/ sobbed she. * Dinna think ill 0’ me. 
It’s difficult for a puir lass to ken what to do. But 
I’ll pray. God made me, and He should ken best 


266 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


hoo to guide me, Mr. Beid/ said she with a tearful 
smile. 

Poor Jessie ! She is not the only girl who has been 
puzzled by the intricate emotions of her own awakening 
soul. Nor is she the only one who has found a quick and 
loving heart a dangerous possession. 




CHAPTER XXVL 

katif/s resolve. 

I’ll use that tongue I have — if wit flow from it, 

As boldness from my bosom, let it not be doubted 
I shall do good. The Winter's Tale. 

EXT morning when Norman awoke he had 
some difficulty in recollecting the events of the 
past evening. His head was heavy and full 
of strange noises, and it was with an effort 
that he dressed and proceeded down-stairs to his study. 

Erom the window he could see that the rain was still 
falling, slanting in big drops through the white mist 
ascending from the lio.t earth. The Otter flowed past in 
full and rapid spate, its waters spread out far beyond 
their ordinary channel in a hoarse and leaden flood. 

Sheaves of draggled corn, the sunny gleam lost in the 
turgid whirl of water, were swept past — a woeful presage 
of loss to the small farmers whose lands lay in the fertile 
valley of the Otter ; the stubble-fields were flooded, and 
men were paddling about in small boats between the 
hedgerows, seeking if by any possibility they might be 
able to seize and save something from the scene of ruin. 

But Norman’s vision soon grew indistinct, and he 

287 



268 Norman Reid ’ M.A. 

almost staggered into the parlour when Katie called him 
to breakfast. 

4 1 doot you’re no’ fit to be up this mornin’. Ye look 
far frae weel, Norman/ she said anxiously as he sat down 
heavily and passed his hand over his hot brow. 

•I’ll be all right after breakfast, Katie/ 

4 It’s no’ verra like it. Dae ye want to kill yoursel’, 
workin’ for ever amang that fever ? Ye had little need 
to jump into the Otter last nicht.* 

4 Come, Katie, don’t scold. I couldn’t help it, you 
know.’ 

Katie hung about the parlour and watched him keenly. 
She began to fear that he had taken the fever. She 
saw that he made a mere pretence of eating, and that 
he seemed glad to rise from the table and sink into the 
lounge by the fire, which she had made bright for his 
coming. She shook her head as she lifted the tray and 
closed the door. 4 It’s time this way o’ doin’ was put a 
stop to/ she mumbled to herself as she went along the 
passage to the kitchen. 4 If he’s nae better by efternune, 
I’ll send for the doctor — and his mither tae. She’ll hae 
to come noo. And I’ll dae mair than that, or my name’s 
ho’ Katie Lawson ! That Morgan maun be brocht to his 
senses, and I’ll see to it, although the verra sky should 
fa’ about my heid. I’ll no’ hae my puir laddie badgered 
ony mair.’ 

4 Are ye speakin’ to me, mem ? ’ said Jessie at her 
elbow, for Katie, as usual, had been unconsciously 
speaking aloud. 4 Dae ye mean me, Mrs. Lawson ? Eh, 
I wadna like to bother Mr. Reid ! ’ 


Katie s Resolve. 


269 


Katie put down the tray on the dresser. 

4 Haud your tongue, lassie ; it’s no’ you — this time,’ 
said she grimly. * Be a douce lass, and tak’ your break- 
fast, and syne rin hame to your mither.’ 

* Let me bide and help ye wi* the forenune’s wark.’ 

4 No ; your mither is anxious aboot ye. I’ve been at 
your hoose already this mornin’ to relieve her mind — and a 
bonnie story I heard aboot that Morgan pesterin’ the life 
oot o’ Mr. Keid. I’m fell angry, I can tell ye ; and noo 
I wadna wonder if the minister tak’s the fever. If he 
dees,’ said Katie solemnly, 4 his death will be at his — at 
Morgan’s door ’ — 

Jessie stopped her with a wail of anguish. 

4 Oh, surely, surely he winna tak’ the fever and dee ! I 
canna be guid a’ by mysel’ ! I need him to show me hoo.’ 

Katie was provoked at Jessie’s selfishness, but she was 
sorry for her too. 

4 If ye want to be truly guid, my lass, seek ye the 
Lord’s ain face. Let naething less content ye/ said she, 
dishing the smoking porridge into the platters. 

4 But I canna see the Lord’s ain face. My father’s 
aye say in’ the like 0’ that, but it’s naething but a wheen 
words to me ; things are awfu’ dark for a puir lass that’s 
no’ clever,’ persisted Jessie anxiously. 

4 Draw in your chair as lang as the porridge is hot. 
Folk maun eat if they wad be ready to do onything at a’ 
in the warld. And, Jessie my woman, jist ye gang 
strecht in the way o’ duty. Maybe the Lord’s face will 
shine upon ye oot o’ the mirk. But whether ye see 
Him or no*, jist keep strecht on, for it’s better to be 


Norman Reid , M.A . 


270 

gropin’ about for God in the mirk a’ your days than to 
live in the braid daylicht wi’ a careless heart that minds 
Him not. The dark doesna matter.’ 

Jessie sighed. ‘That’s a weary kind o’ life,’ she 
said. ‘ I’ll never be muckle better at that rate. I doot 
I’ll grow tired 0’ being guid, for I’m but young yet, and 
it’s a lang road to threescore and ten, if I live to see it.’ 

‘Eh, but young folk are impatient !’ cried Katie. ‘ I 
can tell ye that it tak’s mony a lang day, and near han’ 
a’ eternity for a’ that I ken, to sanctify a soul. The 
glaur 0’ the earth mak’s awfu’ stains even on the white 
robes 0’ the redeemed.’ 

* The redeemed ! ’ said Jessie. ‘ Hoo ken I that I’m 
ever to be redeemed ? My father doesna seem to think it. 
I’m but a puir lass on the earth, and my heart is sair wi’ 
sin.* 

‘ Never mind what your father thinks, lass. Tell the 
Father 0’ us a’ everything that troubles ye, and be thankfu* 
that you’re no’ past feelin’ the pangs o’ sin. I’m no’ sae 
guid as I oucht to be mysel’, but eh, sae weel as I ken 
that gin it wasna for the mercifu’ pain sae unco ill to 
thole that God puts in til our hearts to let us ken sin’s 
there, we wadna ken the awfu’ nature 0’ the deidly thing.’ 

Jessie was silent, and after breakfast she cleared away 
the dishes and then went home with a softened and a 
contrite heart, which urged her, to the great embarrass- 
ment of her parents, to kneel at their feet with the old 
eager cry, — 

‘ I want to be guid ! Oh, father, oh, mither, I’ll try to 
be guid if ye’ll only let me lo’e ye a bit, for I canna stand 


Katie s Resolve . 


271 

cauld looks ! I ken I’m no’ guid, but the minister has 
telt me hoo to try.’ 

Her father, who was still under the softening influences 
of recent sorrow, and who, indeed, was half-afraid of this 
passionately-loving daughter whom he had never under- 
stood, raised her gently, and patting her curly dark head, 
said kindly, — 

* Hoots, hoots, J essie, you’re no’ that ill. Dae a’ thing 
your mither tells ye and be a douce bairn. There, there ! 
dinna greet.’ 

But her mother with her quicker sympathies dis- 
cerned the strength of a new resolve amid Jessie’s half- 
hysterical tears and penitence, and bent forward with a 
rare kiss on her upturned face, whispering softly, — 

‘ Wheesht, my bairn ! I’m thankfu’ to see ye safe at 
hame and spared to be a comfort to me.’ 

The good woman still retained a faint memory of 
her own girlish days, and she could understand better 
than her husband could that to one of Jessie’s vehement 
temperament the events of the past night would be fraught 
with momentous issues, out of which would arise more 
chastened feelings to guide her in the future. 

The mother’^ middle-aged experience and temperate 
moods did not hinder her from entering thus far into her 
daughter’s feelings ; and as for the father — he, man-like, 
slunk out of the house to allow the storm of emotion to 
subside, never dreaming that his own uninviting religion 
and his own unsympathetic disapproval of his young 
daughter had caused much of the suffering she had had 
to endure. Ah, those neutral-tinted souls ! How much 


272 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


they are answerable for ! It is their cold creed, their 
moral maxims, their undemonstrative cold hearts that 
darken the natural sunshine of many a young life. 

Meanwhile, Katie’s anxiety on Norman’s account grew 
stronger as the morning wore on, until at last, after 
persuading him to go to bed, she despatched her little 
handmaiden for the doctor, who promptly came and 
pronounced his illness to be fever. 

Katie telegraphed for Mrs. Keid, who arrived in the 
course of the afternoon ; and after everything had been 
arranged for the comfort of Norman and his mother, after 
a nurse had been installed in the sick-chamber and 
the household tasks were concluded, Katie with much 
mumbling and excited nodding of the head put on her 
plaid and bonnet and stole along the passage towards 
the front door. She was determined to hasten the train 
of impending events by * bearding the lion in his den,’ 
or, in other words, by paying an unexpected visit to Mr. 
Morgan ; and she had just succeeded in cautiously opening 
the front door when she found herself confronted by 
Clara, who stood on the steps pale and trembling, looking 
at her with eyes full of tears. 

Katie met the distressed and pleading look with a 
stiff and cold glance of inquiry. She deeply resented 
the breaking of the engagement between the lovers, and, 
woman-like, had cast the whole of the blame upon Clara, 
who instinctively divined that the grim but true-hearted 
housekeeper looked upon her, when they chanced to meet, 
with disapprobation. 

* Oh, Mrs. Lawson, is it true that Norman — that Mr. 


Katie s Resolve . 


273 


Reid is dying?* Clara exclaimed, catching Katie’s 
reluctant hands and almost kneeling to her on the door- 
step in the impulsive abandonment of her grief. 

‘ God forbid, Miss Clara ! * ejaculated Katie, softened 
in spite of herself. * He has ta’en the fever, it is true, 
and he has been worried ’maist to death by your uncle. 
Oh, Miss Clara, I wonder ye could lichtlie him,’ she 
added reproachfully. ‘The puir lad had little need 0’ 
that to add to his troubles.* 

* Katie, Katie, but I*m sorry now ! Let me in just for 
one minute to tell him — to tell him * — But her voice 
was lost in a tumultuous storm of sobs. 

Katie guessed the import of the interrupted confession. 
With a tear in her keen eyes she drew her in and gently 
closed the door. 

‘Wheesht, my bairn!* she said. ‘You’re a brave lassie 
to come here, and it winna be for nocht. His mither is 
here ; come into the parlour and rest ye till I tell her you 
are here.’ 

Clara as usual had acted upon an overmastering 
impulse in thus braving her uncle’s displeasure and public 
opinion by coming to the Manse door. 

She had heard an exaggerated report of Norman’s illness 
and also of her uncle’s behaviour at the session-meeting, 
and her sympathies had at once flown remorsefully to 
her lover. 

She had tried in vain to forget all that had passed 
between them. Her heart insisted on retaining an 
undying memory of all the old sweet time, and on 
repeating to her Norman’s parting words, ‘ We can never 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


274 

be indifferent to each other , and my love for you is changeless * 
But was it true ? she had often questioned after a chance 
meeting with him ; or had he forgotten the fact of his 
having laid on her shoulders that difficult task, — the 
almost unmaidenly initiative of returning to love’s sweet 
allegiance ? ‘ Allow nothing to hinder you from letting me 

know if you change your mind, for I shall never cease to love 
you he had said. What if it were she alone who 
remembered ? He had given no sign — he had kept his 
word to the letter. Through all these long months he 
had gone on his way apparently forgetful and unheeding of 
the past. And now he was dying, perhaps, and he would 
never know how precious he was to her. She could not 
endure the tormenting thoughts that assailed her, and in 
her humiliation and sorrow for her past conduct she had 
determined to brave a rebuff even from Norman himself 
by seeking an interview with him, if it were possible, at 
the Manse. 

Ere long Mrs. Beid entered the room where Clara awaited 
her in trepidation and shamefacedness ; and the poor girl 
laid her head upon her old friend’s shoulder and wept as 
she told her what had brought her thither. 

4 Come with me, my darling,’ whispered Norman’s 
mother tenderly. ‘ All will yet be well. Let us go to 
him together. Your presence will give him new strength 
to fight for life.’ 

So they entered the darkened chamber in which 
Norman lay, and while his mother gently explained to 
him the object of Clara’s visit, she drew near to his 
bedside and humbly kissed his hand. 





MRS. REID AND CLARA. — Page 27 4 





























































f 













































































































• • 






























Katie s Resolve . 


275 

* Can you forgive me, Norman ? * she faltered, with 
downcast eyes. 

‘ Forgive you, dearest ! * said he feebly. * I have waited 
long for this happy hour. I knew that you would come 
back to me. Dear, I love you. You have made me very 
happy/ 

* Ah/ said she tremulously, afraid of agitating him, yet 
bent on full confession, ‘ I know now how heartless my 
conduct to you has been ; I shall regret it all my life. 
Live for me, my dearest, that I may show you how truly 
I love you/ 

* I always knew it, Clara. I was content to wait until 
you acknowledged it thus nobly/ 

* And, Norman, I believe — through sorrowful experience 
have I won my belief — that love is best for me. Forgive 
all these past heroics of mine about art. I forego it. 
It is too high for me. I shall not give you a divided 
love. But oh, can you forgive me for falling back so 
meanly — so meanly, dear ! — on your love ? I do not 
deserve that you should love me still/ she said with 
a sob. 

‘Dearest Clara/ replied Norman, ‘love is your true 
vocation, for you are feminine in heart and brain. That 
is your greatest charm, my darling. You have not fallen 
back on love ; you have risen to the level of your truest 
life. Say no more of the past ; there are brighter days 
in store for us ! 1 

But Mrs. Beid, in the midst of her rejoicing over the 
reunion of the lovers, felt a sudden pang of foreboding as 
she listened to Norman’s last hopeful words. Brighter 


2 76 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


days ! Ah, but before those brighter days could dawn 
what dark hours were in store for her and another ! 

After Clara’s departure she sought the seclusion of 
her own room and paced up and down, lost in painful 
reverie ; and in the compressed mouth and the flush of 
inward excitement upon her face were visible the outward 
tokens that she was living over again the joys, the 
passions, the disappointments of the past. 

Meanwhile Katie — a deliverer and an avenger in 
homely guise — was on her way to Otterbank House, for 
Clara’s presence in the Manse had but given a stronger 
impulse to her resolve that justice should be done to 
her well-loved f lad/ although the heavens should fall. 




CHAPTER XXYIL 

NEMESIS. 

Our acts our angels are, or good or ill, 

Our fatal shadows that walk by us still. 

John Fletcher. 

R. MORGAN was in his private room when 
Katie was announced, and at the sight of the 
unwelcome intruder he looked up from the 
table where he was writing, with a very for- 
bidding scowl upon his usually bland face. 

Now that what was virtually the hour of his advantage 
had come, he found it barren of those pleasurable feelings 
of success which he had anticipated. And he could not 
but acknowledge that this had come about because his 
motives were impure and his actions unrighteous. It was 
all very well to salve his conscience and flatter his vanity 
with the assurance that his persecution of the minister 
arose out of his zeal for the Church ; he knew that he 
could not truly ‘lay that flattering unction to his soul,’ 
for he was well aware, and — what was worse — he knew 
that his townsmen were also aware, that personal hatred 
alone had inspired his action from first to last. 

He knew that he was fast losing the dearly-prized 



278 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


respect of these townsmen, and, moreover, he could no 
longer blink the fact that he was also in danger of losing 
his own self-respect. He could not but wince under 
this knowledge, for there was something good in this 
man, as there is, we are led to believe, in every man 
who has swerved from the right path ; and perhaps this 
stinging sense of self-disapproval might yet prove a whip 
to drive him back into the path of honour. But that 
road was steep and humiliating, and meanwhile the lash 
of conscience merely irritated him into more stubborn 
and determined action against the young minister, whom 
he considered the cause of his spiritual downfall. 

At the moment of Katie’s entrance he was inditing a 
letter to the Presbytery anent Norman’s alleged heresy. 
He was determined to get him removed from Otterton, 
and it was nothing to him that the minister’s devotion 
had brought the dread fever upon him, and that by 
common report he lay at the gates of death. 

Mr. Morgan put aside his pen, and, pushing back his 
chair, he motioned Katie to be seated, while the gloom 
deepened on his face as he recognised her. Seeing that 
she ignored his invitation to sit down, he addressed her 
sharply. 

4 Be so good as to state your business at once, Mrs. 
Lawson.’ 

The curt tone roused Katie’s ire. 4 1 suppose,’ said 
she, 4 that ye’ll be thinkin’ the ba’ is at your feet noo 
that Mr. Beid is lyin’ at death’s door, mair through worry 
brought aboot by you than through the fever ? ’ 

‘ What on earth do you mean to insinuate, woman ? * 


Nemesis . 


279 

he exclaimed haughtily. ‘ Have you taken it upon you 
to come here for the purpose of taxing me with being 
the cause of your master’s illness ? You are a most un- 
reasonable person, and you will oblige me by leaving the 
room. Mr. Reid has brought the fever upon himself — and 
it has come at a most convenient time for him/ 

Katie could not stand the sneering innuendo. 

‘ Oh, man,’ she cried hotly, ‘ you’re scarcely human, 
I think, to speak like that o’ a puir young man that has 
followed in his Maister’s steps even to the cheerfu’ layin’ 
doon o’ his life for strangers, if such is the Lord’s will. 
Weel can I believe the truth o’ what my auld auntie 
used to say. “ Katie lass,” quo’ she, “ mind ye this — the 
warst deils that walk the earth hinna ony vulgar smell 
o’ brimstane to let ye ken whaur they come frae. Na, 
they’re finished gentlemen, ilka ane. It’s a puir bit 
’prentice deil that brings his trade-mark wi* him.” ’ 

Mr. Morgan glared at Katie in speechless anger and 
advanced to open the door to show her out. 

‘ I’ve something to say to ye, sir, before I shake aff 
the dust o’ this hoose frae my feet.’ 

' Do you think that I will listen to such a ridiculous 
old Virago as you ? ’ said Mr. Morgan angrily. 

* Virago or no,’ said Katie, nothing daunted but calmly 
seating herself in a chair, ‘ ye hae got to listen to me. 
If ye dinna ken wliat’s richt, ye shall be telt it ance for 
a’ ; an’ let me tell ye, sir, there’s ane in this unhallowed 
hoose that does what’s richt by puir Mr. Reid, an’ that’s 
Miss Clara. I left her beggin’ an’ pleadin’ wi’ his mither 
to let her ance mair see the lad she had lichtlied.’ 


28 o 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


‘What!’ thundered Mr. Morgan, striding threaten- 
ingly towards Katie in his astonishment. ‘ Do you 
mean to tell me that my niece has gone alone to the 
Manse ? * 

* Umphm,’ said Katie calmly as she untied her bonnet- 
strings and slowly unfastened her shawl. 

Mr. Morgan fairly stamped his foot with rage. * I will 
have nothing further to do with her. She shall not return 
to this house, the ungrateful, immodest, bold, deceitful 
girl ! But what other could I expect from the daughter of 
such a father ? She must have been born bad. I wish to 
goodness that I had let her remain in her proper element. 
It is impossible to bring good out of evil. Bad father — • 
bad child. That is one of the consequences of giving 
way to youthful folly. She was bound to inherit her 
father’s depravity ; — children suffer for their parents’ 
misdeeds.’ 

Katie sat quietly waiting until the blind torrent of 
rage had spent its first force. There was a provoking 
smile upon her lips. She had intended to let this master- 
ful gentleman take his swing a little, for she was con- 
scious of having in her possession a power sufficient to 
crush him when she chose to put it forth. But at his 
last words she bent towards him with uplifted hand and 
said almost solemnly, ‘ Ye never said a truer word. 
The bairns suffer for their fathers’ sin. Oot o’ your ain 
mouth are ye condemned. Noo, wad ye be surprised to 
hear that ye hae gotten yoursel’ into a bonnie hubble on 
accoont o’ your ain youthfu’ folly ? Man, man, fling aff 
your self-righteousness. Wha are ye to judge ither folk ? 


Nemesis . 281 

Look back twenty-five years syne. Do ye mind bonnie 
Marion Dale ? * 

Mr. Morgan stood as if petrified, and his angry eyes 
suddenly swerved away from Katie’s direct gaze. His 
face was perceptibly paler as he said hoarsely, — 

‘ Woman, who are you ? What do you know of me?’ 

Katie — homely Katie — had assumed in his eyes the 
character of Nemesis pointing threateningly aloft to a 
sword of retribution. A fierce struggle was going on in 
the breast of Mr. Morgan ; — -anger and dread fought to- 
gether for the mastery, for he knew, as he instinctively 
obeyed Katie and looked back through the years, that his 
sin had found him out, and that in this the hour of his 
outward power and prosperity he was unexpectedly con- 
fronted by a retributive image from the past. 

But he must find out by what strange chance this 
unknown woman held his destiny in her hands. 

‘ Who are you ? What do you know of me?’ he 
repeated, sinking weakly into a chair. 

Katie, much enjoying his discomfiture, deliberately 
rose to satisfy herself that the door was shut ; then she 
approached Mr. Morgan, and, standing before him with 
one hand stretched out, she said in a low but distinct 
voice, — 

'I ken mair than enough aboot ye to ruin your 
character, godly rulin’ elder though ye pretend to be. 
— I wadna wonder noo gin ye hae pretendit sae lang to 
be ane o’ the elect that ye believe it yoursel’ noo. But 
God doesna forget, though ye may ; an : ye canna mock 
Him as ye did the woman that lo’ed ye. An’ noo I tell 


282 


Norman Reid, M.A. 


ye plainly that I hae ta’en it upon me to become the 
Lord’s instrument against ye — except ye repent. I wadna 
be mair revengefu’ than the Lord Himsel’. I will use 
my knowledge 0’ your past as a threat to haud ower ye, 
unless ye stop pesterin’ yon puir lad at the Manse, an’ 
unless ye mak’ an ample apology to him before the 
session. As for wha I am — I am and I was Marion 
Dale’s servant ; and when ye stole through the lanes 0’ 
Netherholm in the simmer gloamin’s to court her, I saw 
ye mony a time unkent to ye baith. I ken hoo ye wiled 
the orphan lassie frae her hame and hoo ye married her 
secretly, though under your ain name, an’ hoo ye basely 
deserted her less than six weeks after ye were wed ; an’ 
nane but me kens hoo the puir lassie cam’ hame again 
to her faithfu’ Katie, broken-hearted an’ humbled to the 
dust. An’ mair I ken ’ — 

Mr. Morgan was leaning forward in his chair with his 
head bowed upon his hands. 

‘ Tell me, is she still alive ? You say you are still her 
servant ? * he said in a low voice. 

* Yes.’ 

‘ Where is she ? Tell me if you know where she is ? * 
he cried, lifting his head and speaking eagerly. 

* No’ sae fast, sir ; Marion Dale is a prouder woman 
than ance she was, an’ is no’ likely to be again at your 
beck an’ ca’. Remember ye hae spoiled her life, and 
that’s no’ a thing that can be mended. What’s dune is 
by wi’ for evermair.’ 

But I would do something to redeem the past,* said 
he brokenly. ‘ I loved her and knew it all too late, for 


Nemesis. 283 

when I sought for her I could find no traces of her. I 
thought she was dead/ 

‘ She left the place that kent o’ her shame, and I gaed 
wi’ her to a strange toon. An’ she took her mother’s 
name, since she had nae richt tae her ain, an’ she scorned 
to claim the dishonoured name ye had gien her. She 
didna want her young son to ken 6cht o’ his father’s ’ — 

‘ Her son ! * interrupted Mr. Morgan with a flush and 
a start of surprise. 

‘ Ay — an’ yours. Oh, man, the ways o’ the Lord are 
past oor puir comprehension ! Are ye no’ struck dumb 
wi’ awe to think that He used ye — yoursel ' — as the instru- 
ment to work oot your ain retribution ? It was you 
that brocht your ain son here, and when I recognised ye 
stannin’ on the Manse door-step the first day I was in 
Otterton, I owned that the Lord’s hand had been workin’ 
wondrous things. Man, man, ye hae lifted yoursel’ 
against your ain flesh and bluid, for Norman Reid is your 
son, though he kens it not.’ 

‘ Good God ! ’ exclaimed Mr. Morgan, wipiDg the 
clammy sweat from his brow as he recollected the wave 
of subtly-elusive resemblance to some one he knew which 
had on various occasions passed over his mind in the 
presence of the young minister. 

He did not dream of doubting Katie’s extraordinary 
statement, for the resemblance which had so baffled him 
now suddenly revealed itself in a flash of certainty as an 
unmistakable likeness to himself. 

* But why was there not some effort made to let me 
know this ? I searched the newspapers for an answer to 


284 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


my advertisements. I did everything in my power to 
recover her/ he said in a low voice, strangely unlike his 
usual strident tones. 

‘Was it likely that she wad tell ye, — you, a wife- 
deserter ! ’ retorted Katie scathingly. ‘ But when I 
recognised ye that first day, I wrote to her, and sair 
distressed she was to think that Norman had come 
within his father’s ken. She bound me doon to secrecy, 
but I kept my e’e upon you, and I wad never hae let ye 
ken he was your son if it hadna been that I was driven 
past patience by the way ye gaed»on. I couldna bear to 
see the wicked prosperin’ “ like a green bay tree.” But I 
am here on my ain accoont. She doesna ken I hae ta’en 
things into my ain hand/ 

‘ Where is she ? * 

‘ Whaur should she be but at the bed-side o’ her son ? ’ 

Mr. Morgan was profoundly moved at the idea of the 
near proximity of his wife. 

‘I sent for her/ continued Katie; ‘an’ she is wi’ him 
noo, an’ nae doot she is cursin’ you in her hert.’ 

‘ Woman, hold your tongue ! ’ groaned Mr. Morgan, 
completely shattered by being thus suddenly confronted 
with the existence of his wife and son — and that son the 
man whom he had so persistently persecuted. He was 
anxious to be alone. He rose nervously from his chair. 

‘ I must think of what requires to be done/ he said 
lamely, unwilling to take Katie into his confidence ; but, 
having already tasted the keen delights of power, she was 
not prepared to let him off thus easily. She rose and 
tied her bonnet-strings with a determined hand. 


Nemesis. 


285 


‘ There’s only twa ways in this matter,’ she said — * a 
rieht way an’ a wrang ; an’ there’s nae thinkin’ needed 
by ony honest man. Thocht is a crafty device o’ the 
deil, an’ I’ll hae nae mair o’ his wark here ; an’ mark ye — 
if ye tak’ the wrang way I’ll be doon upon ye, though ye 
should be backed by every lawyer i’ the land. I’m here 
to see that ye bear your share o’ the misery ye hae 
caused. It doesna often happen that an ill doer gets the 
wages he has wrocht for ; it’s no’ the body that maist 
deserves to suffer that gets his due. It’s the innocent 
that suffers for the guilty, frae Christ Himsel’ down to a 
drunkard’s weans ; but in your case I’ll mak’ sure ye get 
your wages. But I’ll say naething to Mrs. Beid nor to 
onybody else for three days. Three days o’ grace ye 
shall hae, but if by that time ye dinna come forrit and 
mak’ crooked things strecht, I’ll brand ye for a wife- 
deserter through a’ the toon,’ said Katie triumphantly as 
she left the room, while her relentless words seemed to 
scorch the heart of the man thus left face to face with 
the retribution which does not often so openly follow the 
sins of youth. 


25 



CHAPTEE XXVIII. 

BITING TIIE DUST. 

Remembrance frets my heart in solitude, 

As the lone mouse when all the house is still 
Gnaws at the wainscot. 

’Tis a haunting face ! 

Alex. Smith. 

E. MOEGAH paced noiselessly to and fro over 
the soft carpet with his hands clasped and 
his head sunk on his breast. It was an 
attitude expressive of intense humiliation, for 
Katie Lawson had by her almost brutal plain-speaking 
forced him to recognise the real nature of his long-buried 
but still living sin. 

‘ A wife-deserter ! * Yes, that was how the world would 
look upon him — that world whose good opinion was 
the very breath of his nostrils, that world in which he 
was known as a zealous Christian and an honourable 
gentleman ! 

But what was that in comparison with the wrong he 
had done to her and to God ? 

He lifted his arms high above his head and clenched 
his hands in impotent despair as he groaned aloud under 

386 




287 


Biting the Dust. 

the scourge of remorse. The figure of his wronged wife 
seemed to flit before him, and his half-forgotten past, 
which had so long submitted to lie quietly beneath 
religious conventionalities, arose like a spirit, or rather 
like a conscience, to oppress him. 

In panoramic display the scenes and incidents of the 
time when first he met Marion Dale passed before his 
mental eye, and at every point he found that he was 
condemning himself with the stern and impersonal 
judgment of an onlooker. 

He saw himself — his youthful self — hastening through 
the soft summer gloamings of long ago from the northern 
city where he was temporarily staying to the village of 
Netherholm, five miles distant, where dwelt the girl he 
loved. She was only a village schoolmistress, orphaned, 
friendless, and poor, while he was the only son of a 
wealthy employer of labour ; and, as if further to 
emphasise the social difference between their positions, 
he, imbued with a vain and boastful spirit, had led the 
simple girl to believe that his father was a landed 
proprietor with an estate, which he vaguely located in 
the west of Scotland. 

But love had cast its glamour over him, and for a 
time he was content to ‘ count the world well lost ’ for 
the sake of sweet Marion Dale. To be with her was to 
be in paradise, and the pulses of the now elderly man 
thrilled again as memory pictured his early love coyly 
advancing to meet him between the flower-haunted 
hedges, while the western sunbeams sent mystical golden 
gleams through the leafy greenness of the wayside trees. 


288 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


Once more he saw her liquid dark eyes, shining and 
tender, reflecting his loving gaze as pools reflect the 
radiance of the noonday sun ; once more he saw the 
smile that broke the demure curves of her delicate 
mouth, and the rosy blush that so sweetly answered his 
ardent gaze ; and once more he heard the silvery tones 
of her voice. Ah, those hours of young love, when each 
was all-sufficient for the other as they wandered with 
‘ linked arms and hearts aglow ’ in all the rapturous 
privacy of half-acknowledged love ! 

But all the while he came to meet this pure and 
simple maiden with a lie upon his lips ! While she 
trusted him ‘all in all/ he was already looking beyond 
the summer dalliance to a life wherein she had no place. 

For if there was one thing on earth which he dreaded, 
it was the tyranny of his mother, and to escape that he 
weakly played the villain, for he had no desire that his 
stern and imperious mother should find out how he was 
spending his leisure. She, he knew, had far other, far 
higher views for the establishment of her only son ; and 
he, too, was ambitious and meant to accede to her 
demands that he would become his father’s partner and 
marry the wealthy bride whom she destined for him. 
But love had caught him in its toils, and what he had 
intended to be merely a pleasant summer’s pastime 
became a matter of momentous and absorbing interest to 
him. He loved Marion Dale with all the intensity of 
which his selfish heart was capable ; but he did not love 
her well enough to make him true to himself and to her. 
In the end he persuaded her to marry him privately, 


289 


Biting the Dust. 

silencing her natural scruples by a story which sounded 
plausible enough in her innocent ears ; and he trusted, 
as so many thoughtless and inexperienced young men 
had done before him, to chance to remove the difficulties 
of the future. 

He fancied in his youthful folly and ignorance that 
he would have no difficulty in making circumstances 
bend to his will ; but he had yet to learn that sin is 
limitless in its reach, and that no man can guess the 
ultimate results of any deviation from the path of truth 
— that one false act is like a stone flung into a deep and 
silent pool, which causes an ever-widening series of circles 
to arise until the eye can no longer discern the far- 
spreading circumference of silent motion. 

Still Mr. Morgan paced to and fro, while memory 
with threatening finger pointed to the past as it further 
unrolled itself. 

Once more he saw the figure of sweet Marion Dale, 
his five-weeks’ wife now, all unconscious of the dark and 
sinful designs her husband hid from her beneath his 
Judas kisses. He lived over again the night upon which 
he stole from her side, leaving a letter containing the 
pitiful falsehood by which he strove as much to silence 
his own clamorous conscience as to comfort her — in 
which he told her that he must go away for a time 
owing to the receipt of a letter from home summoning 
him to the death-bed of his father, and advised her to 
return to the little school-house at Netherholm until he 
should smooth the way for her introduction to his people 
as his wife. But in the letter he carefully abstained 


290 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


from any mention of his address or of the fact that the 
letter was a stormy one from his mother, who had 
received a hint of how he spent his evenings. She 
wrote, commanding him to return home at once on pain 
of forfeiting not only his place in the foundry but the 
bride of her choice, to whom another suitor had begun to 
pay his addresses. 

Mr. Morgan groaned aloud as memory relentlessly 
pictured to him the dastard youth fleeing by night, and 
he looked with a curious horror upon his past self. He 
beheld himself metamorphosed into a secret scoundrel, 
making love to another pure-minded girl while the 
claims of his deserted wife were thrust deliberately aside. 
And yet he had prospered— as the world reckons prosperity! 
True, he had been saved, but by no action or penitence 
of his own, from burdening his conscience with another 
heinous crime, for the girl that his mother desired him 
to marry was betrothed and soon thereafter married to 
another. But, although the way was thus far smoothed 
for his return to the path of honour, he took no steps to 
bring his wife home. He drifted along with the current 
of circumstances, and the years went past with an ever- 
accumulating load of future remorse upon their eternal 
records, and memory bided her time to reveal them. 

At length his father died, and soon thereafter his 
mother also, and he returned from abroad to take his 
place as head of the firm and master of Otterbank 
House. Gradually he became known as a devout and 
liberal Christian, but still his secret slumbered in his 
heart. 


291 


Biting the Dust . 

But after a while, when he felt securely that he was 
his own master and the terror which his mother had 
exerted over, him finally died away, he began to make 
cautious inquiries after his wife ; and his heart yearned 
over her with more than the old love as the time passed 
by without bringing any intelligence of her. At length, 
unable to discover even whether she was still living, he 
relinquished the search. He concluded that she was 
dead, and, save for an occasional twinge of conscience as 
he gazed nightly upon her portrait, he pursued his way 
in prosperous ease. 

Thus it came about that, after more than a quarter of 
a century of prosperous and prosaic existence, he had 
come to regard his hasty marriage with Marion Dale as 
little more than an episode in his otherwise unromantic 
and respectable life ; — as a young man’s folly, in short, 
and a sowing of the proverbial wild oats which fortunately 
had left no harvest of undesirable consequences to be 
reaped. For this he was unfeignedly thankful to Pro- 
vidence, and the outcome of this feeling was a zealous 
attention to the religious formalities of the Church, and 
consequently an unconscious hardening of the heart 
against * pure religion and undefiled.’ 

Still, as he paced to and fro in solitude, Mr. Morgan 
followed the finger of memory in the past. He saw 
once more the coming of his son to Otterton, and he 
acknowledged with a thrill of awe how extraordinary 
were the links of the chain with which fate had fettered 
him. He, as Katie had pointed out, had brought his son 
to Otterton ! He recalled the high favour in which he 


292 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


had at first held the young minister, and the evident 
backwardness of the latter to reciprocate his feeling of 
good-will. What strange instinct was it that had warned 
the honourable son against the dishonourable father, and 
how would it be between them if the real relationship 
were divulged ? He began almost to dread this son 
whom he had persecuted, as he called to mind the 
strange effect of the fleeting likeness which had so often 
constrained and dismayed him, for he knew that he could 
expect no mercy at his hands, and he acknowledged that 
his own relentless persecution had winged the arrow 
which had laid him thus low in the dust. 

In these few hours while he traversed the silent room 
the full and ruddy visage of the ruling elder became 
haggard and wan. But gradually he grew more like his 
prompt and resolute self, as the unflinching hand of 
memory paused over the humbling retrospect of his life. 
He became calm — calm with the desperate resolve to 
have done with the falsity, the hatred, the sin of the 
past. He saw the necessity for immediate action, but 
he was driven thereto by no fear of Katie Lawson’s 
threats. He was determined to reinstate himself as far 
as might be in the eyes of God, of himself, and of his 
fellows. He would do all that he could, even to the 
public announcement of his sin, to atone for the past; 
and, as he thus resolved, there slowly grew upon him a 
sense of satisfaction — nay, of timid affection — in the 
thought that he possessed a wife and son. Even although 
they should unite with the world — as in his new humility 
he owned they justly might unite — in repudiating his 


293 


Biting the Dust. 

tardy and enforced retrieval, he was resolutely determined 
not to shrink from the herculean task which resistless 
fate had imposed upon him. 

It seemed as if a breath of healthier air were wafted 
over his spirit from some higher sphere ; — he raised his 
head, and, wiping the beads of sweat from his haggard 
face, lifted up his voice in penitent prayer to the God 
whom he felt he had most of all wronged, and thereafter 
he went forth to meet his wife. 




CHAPTER XXIX. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

Oh what was love made for if ’tis not the same 
Through joy and through torments, through glory and shame? 

T. Moore. 

ATER that evening, when Katie was moving 
diligently among her household duties by the 
cheerful firelight of her cosy kitchen, rehears- 
ing the while many imaginary conversations 
between herself and the ruling elder, each of which 
terminated in an even more triumphant victory for her 
than her real encounter with him a few hours before had 
done, she was startled by the spasmodic movements of 
the door bell, which on account of Norman’s illness had 
been muffled with straw. 

* Preserve me I * she exclaimed, fumbling hastily for a 
taper among the shadows which danced along the high 
mantel-shelf and lighting it at the fire. * Wha can be 
cornin’ to the Manse at this time o’ nicht ? It canna be 
the doctor again, surely ? * she said with quickened 
steps. * It’s only eicht o’clock efter a’ ! * she added as 

2 4 



Husband and Wife . 295 

she caught sight of the tall clock in the hall. 4 Hoo fast 
the days are drawn/ in ! ’ 

When she opened the door the light in her hand 
flared and bent before the rising wind, and, while she 
put up her hand to shield it, some one stepped quickly 
into the hall and shut the door. 

* Is it you , Mr. Morgan ? * exclaimed Katie, surprised 
and curious. 

4 1 want to see my — your mistress/ he said in a 
strangely subdued tone of voice. ‘ Give her my card/ 

The hand which proffered it trembled violently, and all 
questions were for once arrested on Katie’s lips as she 
peered into his face ; for, from the grey, drawn visage of 
the man before her, it was impossible to doubt that he 
was in the grip of a terrible remorse. 

She silently held out her hand for the card and 
beckoned him to follow her into the room, which Clara 
had not long before quitted on her departure from the 
house. Katie lit the gas, still without speaking, and left 
the room softly, for she felt that there was a tragic 
significance in the silence of the man whom she had thus 
strangely admitted into his wife’s home. As she slowly 
ascended the stairs on her way to her mistress, she began 
for the first time to wonder whether she had not perhaps 
made a mistake. She felt vaguely afraid of the silent 
force of Mr. Morgan’s mood, and she shook her head 
ominously as the thought occurred to her that her 
mistress would have a right to be angry with her for 
intermeddling with such a delicate matter. 

Besides, Mrs. Reid, at all times easily agitated and 


296 


Vorman Reid, M.A. 


now weary with her long journey and sad with the 
knowledge of her son’s serious illness, was scarcely in a 
fit state to receive the husband who had cruelly deserted 
her so long ago, and who had now so unexpectedly come 
to see her. 

Katie had confidently counted on having abundance 
of time in which to prepare her mistress for the 
probability of such a visit. 

‘ What for couldna the man tak’ the three days o’ 
grace I allooed him ? I ken by his face that his back 
is at the wa’ noo/ she muttered peevishly, dismayed to 
find that fate had other instruments besides her where- 
with to work its sovereign will, and, truth to tell, alarmed 
at the effect on Mr. Morgan of the victory in which she 
had just been glorying — an effect not only beyond her 
anticipation, but — what was more awe-inspiring — beyond 
her power to controL 

‘ I’ll just need to tell the mistress a’ aboot it this 
minute, 5 she grumbled. ' I’m sure ye never ken what 
men-folk are up to. They maun aye keep a body in 
some pickle or ither ! * 

She tapped softly at the door of Norman’s bedroom, 
and on Mrs. Reid’s appearance she beckoned her to- 
wards a small anteroom and lost no time in telling her 
story. 

* An’ he’s doon the stair the noo, waitin’ to speak 
to ye, an’ this is his card,’ she concluded breath- 
lessly. 

Mrs. Reid’s face blanched and the slip of paper which 
Katie had thrust into her hand fell to the floor. She 


297 


H usband and Wife . 

opened her mouth to speak, but no words issued forth 
from between the dry lips. Again she essayed to 
speak. 

‘ Tell him that I cannot see him/ she said in a gasping 
whisper. 

‘ Yerra weel/ said Katie as she turned to go, relieved 
to find no word of reproach directed against herself. 
‘ It’s no’ a time o’ nicht, at ony rate, to come and bother 
ye/ 

‘ Wait, Katie, wait ! * cried Mrs. Eeid desperately 
before the old servant had taken two steps across the 
floor. f Tell him I cannot see him — now/ she said with 
a sob which heralded a burst of bitter weeping. 

Katie put her faithful arms round her and strove to 
comfort her. 

‘ Oh, Katie, why did you tell him ? What am I to 
do — what am I to do ? * cried her mistress. 

* Oh, my dear/ said the old woman, wiping away the 
tears from her own eyes, 4 1 meant it for guid. I 
couldna wait ony langer efter seem’ the puir lad ben there 
brocht so low through that man doon the stair. Life is 
no’ lang enough for shilly-shallyin’ wi’ richt an’ wrang, 
• an’ I bode to bring him to accoont. Dinna be vexed. 
I did it for the best/ 

After a while Mrs. Eeid recovered her composure. 

‘ Go down/ she said again as she rose to resume her 
watch in Norman’s chamber ; * tell him that I cannot 
see him/ She looked pleadingly at Katie as if to urge 
her to read the relenting which was hidden beneath 
the cold words, but Katie’s eyes were too dim with tears 


298 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


to see the look of yearning and long-repressed love in 
the face of her mistress. 

4 I’ll tell him. Trust to me/ she whispered as she 
turned to descend the stair. 

She delivered her message as gently as possible, but 
nevertheless to him who heard, yet knew not of the 
hope of a future meeting with which Mrs. Reid’s tears 
and hesitation had imbued it, Katie’s words sounded 
like the knell of doom. She shrank aghast before the 
sudden look of speechless misery that came into Mr. 
Morgan’s face. 

No stormy upbraiding from the lips of his wronged 
wife could have had half the power to humiliate that this 
courteous denial of his request to see her had. He 
turned to leave the room, but everything seemed to 
swim around him, and a noise as of many waters tingled 
into his ears. Mechanically he stretched out his hand 
to grasp the chair from which he had risen, but a 
strange blackness of darkness closed round him, and in 
another moment, without a word, he fell prone at Katie’s 
feet. 

She lost her presence of mind, she shrieked aloud for 
her mistress, she frantically strove to lift the grey head 
from the carpet as Mrs. Reid with a dreadful terror on 
her face rushed into the room. 

‘ Stephen, Stephen ! oh, my love ! ’ cried the unhappy 
wife, as she flung herself down beside the dark, still 
figure. 

Katie stood by, too much awed to move or speak. 

‘ Is he dead ? Tell me, is he dead ? * said Mrs. Reid 


Husband and Wife . 299 

• 

at last, rousing herself from her momentary stupor of 
grief. ‘ Oh, I am a hard and wicked woman !* 

Katie knelt down and placed her hand upon the heart 
of the motionless man. To her unbounded relief, she felt 
a faint pulsation of life. * He is alive,’ she said, looking 
pitifully into Mrs. Eeid’s face. ‘ Dinna vex yoursel’ sae 
sair, or I’ll be fit to droon mysel’.* She chafed his hands 
and wiped the damp dews from his brow, while Mrs. Eeid 
knelt trembling by her side, realising in an agony of 
sympathy the enormous strain and stress of the remorse 
which had brought the strong man thus low. 

They managed between them to lift him on to the 
sofa, and after Katie had bathed his forehead and 
touched his lips with a cordial he began slowly to revive. 
But his eyes opened only to close again with a quick 
shudder, and his face grew ashen once more. 

Katie slipped quietly from the room. 

‘Stephen, won’t you open your eyes? Won’t you 
look at me ? ’ murmured his wife, placing her hand 
gently upon his. He moved his head with a groan, and 
slow and difficult tears welled from beneath his closed 
eyelids. 

It was sad to see the strong man’s shame ; and his 
wife, sick at heart, bent low. 

‘ Stephen,’ she said again, ‘ look up. Speak to me. I 
freely forgive you. I was wrong too. In so suddenly 
and completely disappearing from Ketherholm I barred 
the way against your return to me ; and although I saw 
your advertisement, I was too proud and hard to answer 
it/ 


300 


Norman Reid \ M.A . 


Still he did not speak, but his hand dumbly sought 
her answering clasp. 

‘ And to-night, Stephen, when I was told that you 
were here, I felt hard and unforgiving, but that is all over/ 
She paused, unable for a moment to proceed ; then with 
a sudden cry of pain she exclaimed, ‘ Help me, oh my 
husband, to forget the past ! * 

There was a faint flickering of his eyelids, and at last 
in a low voice he said, ‘ I cannot forget it — it is burned 
into my heart. How can you forgive me, Marion ? — I 
sinned against you so deliberately ! ’ 

‘ But I do forgive you — because I love you/ she said 
half-shyly ; but her husband flung his hands before his 
face with a bitter cry, and for a little space there was 
silence in the room. 

By-and-bye Katie ventured to tap at the door ; and 
on receiving permission she entered, bearing in her 
hospitable hands a well-filled supper-tray. 

Katie had a sound conviction that one of the best 
methods of ministering * to a mind diseased ’ was to ap- 
proach it circuitously in some such appetising fashion as 
this. So she arranged the impromptu repast with quite 
a cheerful clatter of knives and plates. Then she stirred 
the fire into a crackling blaze, and, with a tearful look 
of affection towards her mistress, once more withdrew, 
leaving the husband and wife to break bread together in 
peace and love. 

Outside, the wind howled gustily round the house and 
sent rustling crowds of fallen leaves along the gravelled 
path, while now and again a dash of rain against the 


3oi 


Husband and Wife . 

windows proclaimed that the night was tempestuous ; 
but these conditions merely heightened the feelings of 
comfort and intense thankfulness within. 

After supper he would fain have confessed to her all 
his penitence and desires to atone, but, with the old love 
shining in her still beautiful eyes to second her request, 
she pleaded that he would ‘ let the dead past bury its 
dead,’ and that he would not seek to pierce behind the 
cloud which had so long obscured the zenith of their 
lives, but rather that he would help her to gather the 
raindrops of blessing and mercy which had fallen from 
that cloud upon their heads. 

Then she took his arm and together they entered the 
room where their son lay. Katie flitted from the 
chamber like a ghost as the husband and wife approached 
the bed. 

4 If he dies, his death will lie at my door/ said he in a 
hoarse tone of anguish. 

‘ Not so/ replied she ; * for the issues of life and of 
death are in a higher hand. Let us pray that he may 
be spared to us.’ 

‘ Oh, Marion ! looking upon him lying there, can 
you really forgive me ? * and as she opened her lips to 
answer him, from the dim borderland of delirium in 
which Norman was tossing came the words, ‘ Until 
seventy times seven/ 

A light of joy flashed over his mother’s face. 

* Our son has answered you, Stephen. Lest in peace/ 
she said. 

Stephen Morgan never felt so completely humbled as 

26 


302 


Norman Reid , M.A. 


he did on that night when the loving forgiveness of the 
wife whom he had so cruelly wronged fell upon his 
broken spirit like a beam from the Divine mercy ; and 
rest assured that the penitence, the agony, the remorse 
of that eventful time bore the ‘peaceable fruits of 
righteousness ’ after many days. 




CHAPTEE XXX. 

A GOOD NEW YEAR! 

Ring out the old, ring in the new, 

Ring, happy bells, across the snows 
The year is dying — let him go ; 

Ring out the false, ring in the true. 

Tennyson. 

HE months passed on into winter oefore the 
epidemic had quite left the Waterside district, 
and it was the end of November before 
Norman, whose life had at one time been 
despaired of, was able to resume his ministerial work. 

He had Accepted the strange, ironical fact of his 
relentless persecutor proving to be his own father with 
the curious absence of surprise characteristic of those 
who have been face to face with death, and to whom the 
assured possession of life makes everything else seem 
commonplace and subordinate in comparison. 

During the quiet time of Norman’s convalescence, Mr. 
Morgan had found many opportunities of acquainting him- 
self anew with the character of his son, who on his part 
was not slow, we may be sure, to respond to the overtures 
of peace and affection which his new-found father humbly 

303 



304 


Norman Reid \ M.A. 


and timidly made to him. As for his mother, she seemed 
to have renewed her youth now that the crushing secret 
was removed from her life ; and Clara, too, was happier 
than she had ever dreamed she could have been in the 
prospect of a future in which art, if it had any place 
at all, must needs prove secondary to all-conquering 
love. 

Mr. Morgan in the excess of his humility was anxious 
to make some semi-public statement regarding his past 
treatment of his wife and son ; but they, rightly contend- 
ing that outsiders had nothing whatever to do with such 
a delicate private matter, induced him to abandon his 
intention. 

But, truth to tell, the essential facts of the strange 
story had by some means or other got wind among the 
curious, and Mr. Morgan had to submit to the humilia- 
tion of finding himself a £ nine days’ wonder ’ in the town 
where he had once carried himself so loftily. 

But very soon signs of a wider and more genuine 
popularity than he had ever before enjoyed were not 
wanting to convince him that men on the whole appre- 
ciate every endeavour to make honourable amends for 
wrong-doing. His workmen, won by his kindly attitude 
towards them, began to speak kindly of him in return, 
and to admit that there was ‘ some good in the master 
after all ; ’ and doubtless they had many a talk at their 
own firesides about the softened demeanour of the once 
arrogant and supercilious tyrant, about the subdued look 
of suffering and patience in his face, and about the many 
tokens he gave of his new interest in their well-being. 


A Good New Year. 


305 


These * fair humanities * did more to place the relations 
between master and men on a proper footing than could 
have been done by months of the old bitter struggle, 
even had it ended in a victory for the workmen. 

One unmistakable proof of the reality of the change 
that had come over the spirit of the man was that, 
unasked, he had considerably raised their wages ; but 
perhaps the most generally convincing evidence of this 
was the fact of his having after all ‘ footed ’ Norman’s 
subscription list with a munificent donation, which had 
enabled the committee appointed for the purpose to 
secure premises for the workmen’s institute in the Water- 
side district of much larger dimensions and to equip it 
in a much more elaborate style than had been originally 
contemplated. 

The work of altering and arranging these to serve the 
end in view had been vigorously pushed forward during 
the period of Norman’s illness and recovery, and now — on 
this the last day of the eventful old year — the Institute 
stood completed, luxuriously fitted up, and gaily bedecked 
with bright-berried holly, awaiting the opening ceremony, 
which was to take place that evening. 

Norman and Clara had been quietly married on 
Christmas Eve, and this last day. of the year which was 
to witness their home-coming will long be memorable in 
the annals of the little world of human beings who had 
been spectators of the drama of the past months. 

Although a chill yellow snow-mist hung over the frost- 
encrusted Otter, and the large white flakes of a ‘ feeding 
storm ’ were beginning to fall heavily to the ground, 


30 6 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


nothing could damp the spirits of the little crowd of 
people waiting at the Manse gates for the arrival of the 
carriage containing the bride and bridegroom. 

Ere long their patience was rewarded. The carriage 
came rapidly into view, and cheers rang forth again and 
again as Norman, somewhat pale yet from his recent 
illness but looking a happy and a gallant bridegroom, 
drew down the window and bowed in acknowledgment 
of the tribute so enthusiastically offered. 

‘Welcome hame! A guid New Year ! Welcome hame 
to you and your young wife, sir ! * cried a dozen eager 
voices as Norman stepped down among them, returning 
their greetings with many cordial handshakings and 
words of good-will. Then he turned with a smile and 
assisted Clara to alight. 

What a lovely blushing bride she made in her travel- 
ling cloak and cap of crimson and ermine ! She passed 
on her husband’s arm along an admiring lane of familiar 
faces through the garden, which the snow had transformed 
into an enchanted land. From every bough of the ever- 
greens and from every twig of the tall bare trees hung 
a marvellous shining legion of twinkling, dripping icicles ; 
the lawn lay a broad expanse of purest white, unbroken 
save by the dainty footprints of the birds ; and the 
snow-flakes fell fast upon her head, but not faster than 
the good-wishes and blessings that greeted her home- 
coming. 

Her dark eyes were shining with emotion and her lips 
trembled as she noted the many evidences of the love 
which her husband hud gained for himself among his 


A Good New Year . 


307 


people. She smiled half-tearfully into his face, and he 
pressed her arm tenderly to his side as he led her over the 
threshold of home, for he divined the nature of the emotion 
which had thus brought the dew into her happy eyes. 

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan hastened forward to greet them; 
and Katie, resplendent in a new black satin gown which 
she proudly declared could ‘ stand its lane/ fairly kissed 
Norman before them all, and the tears were in her faith- 
ful old eyes as she bade them both welcome home. 

‘ Home ! * said Clara musingly when they two found 
themselves alone for a little after the bustle of their 
reception had subsided ; ‘ it is a beautiful word — a rest- 
ful word. But what a commonplace sentiment I am 
uttering !’ she added with a merry laugh. 

* Not so, my darling/ replied Norman, his arm stealing 
round her waist as she stood encircled by the ruddy light 
upon the glowing hearth. ‘Not so, since your fresh 
experience has endowed it with new significance for us 
both.’ 

‘ Ah, Norman, do you remember how nearly I lost this 
blessed home in my search for an imaginary palace of 
art V 

‘ But now you have come into your true kingdom, my 
precious queen of home/ said he. ‘ Let us be thankful 
that a guiding Hand has brought us safe into “ our desired 
haven/’ Love and Faith shall be the twin-stars to light 
our home ; and God grant that the reflection of that 
home-light may shine upon and cheer many a weary one 
struggling in the thick of life’s dark battle. Dearest 
wife, our happiness is brighter for the sorrow that went 


308 


Norman Reid, M.A. 


before ; let us go through life working together to fulfil 
God’s purposes on earth.’ 

In the evening there was a grand muster of the 
working men, their wives, children, and sweethearts, to 
celebrate the opening of the new Institute. A different 
social gathering this from that in which Norman took 
part on his first appearance in Otterton 1 For even in 
those few intervening months death and change, as we 
know, had levied their tax, and the fever had swept away 
many whose place in church and social meeting would 
know them no more. But he looked upon each remaining 
well-known face with a full and thankful heart. Shall 
we take a last look at some of our old acquaintances ? 

Robert Borland was there, sitting douce and grave 
between his wife and Adam Auld — the latter carefully 
wrapped up in an ample tartan plaid, for he was suffering 
much from rheumatism during this snowy weather. 
Adam was a proud man that night, for he was about to 
be elevated to the responsible position of timekeeper at 
Otterbank Foundry. There was a pretty house and 
garden attached to the post, and, as Adam said to Katie, 
who sat on his other side, 9 it was a fine canny job for an 
auld man, and he didna doot but that the garden could 
be made to pay.’ 

And Mysie was there — sweet blind Mysie, to whom I 
am loath to bid farewell. Her pure pale face with its 
look of gentle power shone like a lily beneath her modest 
bonnet ; and by her side sat her cousin, J essie Borland, 
eager and impulsive as ever, leaning forward with 
smiling lips apart to observe all that was going on. 


A Good New Year. 


309 


She made a pretty bit of vivid colouring beside pale 
Mysie, for her cheeks were glowing with excitement and 
her curly dark hair was crowned with a coquettish little 
hat encircled by a splendid scarlet feather, and her eyes 
twinkled roguishly with the seldom absent gleam of 
humour which was certainly needed to redeem her eager 
face from being simply tragic in its intensity of expres- 
sion. 

For once Jessie was happy, and so was John Logan 
who sat by her side, for Jessie wore his New Year’s gift 
— a bright gold locket — suspended from her neck, and 
she had promised, with the full and willing consent of 
her father, that ‘ some day ’ she would be his wife. 

Be sure that she will have much to discourage her 
as she struggles up the Hill Difficulty on her way to 
the Celestial City; but though at times the old stinging 
sense of defeat and lack of goodness will come to goad 
her into passionate penitence — why, that is the penalty 
she is bound to pay for her growing nobility of cha- 
racter. It is not given to many to walk ever in the 
light of God’s face as Mysie was privileged to do. 

And what shall I say of Mr. and Mrs. Morgan except 
that they were exceeding glad in the pain-brought know- 
ledge that lay deep in both hearts — the knowledge that 
love was with them for evermore. Love had conquered 
sorrow and regret, it had made remorse endurable, it 
had given them joy for grief, and for despair a glad new 
hope wherewith to begin another year. 

It is true that there was in each heart a haunted 
chamber, and that the blessed veil of loving silence was 

27 


Norman Reid, M.A. 


310 

all that concealed the sorrowful, sinful past, but the 
lesson that ‘ silence is golden ’ is one which we have all 
to learn as life ripens ; and after all, speech is but a poor 
makeshift creation, suitable only for this incomplete 
world of ours, and a thing to be used sparingly at best, 
seeing that the lips are dangerously near that sinful, 
impetuous, loving, contrary, mischief-making thing — the 
human heart. 

And since these are my sentiments, I will not inflict 
upon the indulgent reader an account of the many 
speeches which were delivered at the opening of the 
Institute. Suffice it to say that Mr. Morgan, as by far 
the most liberal subscriber to the scheme that had 
culminated so triumphantly in the meeting of that night, 
had been asked and had reluctantly consented to declare 
the Institute open ; and this he did in a speech notable 
chiefly for its brevity and modesty, its kindly tone and 
genuine feeling — qualities which had hitherto always 
been ‘conspicuous by their absence' from the many 
orations that Mr. Morgan had from first to last delivered 
on public occasions. 

The evening passed quickly and pleasantly away with 
its varied programme of speech and song and sentiment ; 
and by the time that was concluded, the close of the old 
year was so near that it was laughingly proposed and 
settled by acclamation that the company should remain 
to welcome the New Year in. 

The hands of the clock soon reached the midnight 
hour. A solemn hush fell upon the assembled people 
as the silvery chime rang out twelve; then with one 


A Good New Year . 


3ii 

accord all were on their feet and with much cheering and 
hand-shaking were wishing each other * a Happy New 
Year.’ 

Nobody ever knew who started the song of ‘Auld 
Lang Syne/ but started it was and enthusiastically sung 
to the end: — only Mysie’s voice trembled and at last 
became silent as they sang, — 

We twa hae paidl't i’ the burn 
Frae morning sun till dine ; 

But seas between ua braid hae roared 
Since auld lang syne. 

Her first New Year’s thoughts had flown across the broad 
Atlantic with a sigh and a prayer for perverse Jim. 

Much amusement was created when Rab Reyburn 
insisted, amid the general bustle of departure, upon mak- 
ing a speech of which the only words that could be 
heard above the uproarious laughter were to the effect 
that that was the first ‘ Hogmanay’ he recollected of 
spending without getting drunk, and also that for once 
in his life he had 4 heard a sang o’ Rab Mossgiel’s sung, 
withoot missin’ the clink o’ the whisky glasses.’ 

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, senior, took their departure for 
Otterbank House amid ringing cheers, and not less hearty 
were the tokens of favour showered upon the homeward 
way of Mr. and Mrs. Morgan, junior. 

And now we also will bid them farewell. 

Life is fair and bright for them once more. A new 
year has dawned alike upon their hearts and on the 
world. The storms have passed by and the sky is clear. 
It may be so only for a time, it is true, for storms will 


312 


Norman Reid ’ M.A. 


come again, since sorrow is never very far away from 
the lot of earnest men and women ; but surely we may 
predict for them a future happy in spite of storms, since 
love for God, love for their fellows, and their own tender 
and well-tried personal affection, have woven a triple 
thread of gold athwart the grey web of their lives. 



Glossary of Scotch Words 


A’, all. 

Abe, be. 

Aboon (or, abnne), 
above. 

Aboot, about. 

Adae, either. 

Ae. one ; only. 

Aff off'. 

Aff-pittin’, patting off 1 . 
Aff-putten, cast on. 
Aiblins, perhaps. 

Ain, own. 

Aince (or, ance), once. 
Airth, earth. 

Amang, among. 

Ane, one. 

Anent, concerning. 
Anither, another. 

A’ t h i n g, all things ; 

every thing. 

Auld, old. 

Ava’, at all. 

Awa’, away. 

Bade, staid. 

Bairn, child. 

Baith, both. 

Ban net, bonnet. 

Bauld, bold. 

Bawbee, a half-penny. 
Behauden, beholden. 
Ben, in. 

Ben-end, parlor or sit- 
ting-room ; kitchen. 
Bide, stay. 

Biggin, building, house. 
Binna, be not ; is not. 
Birr, to make a whirring 
noise. 

Bluid, blood. 

Bode, same as bade, 
staid. 

Bonnie, or bonny, beau- 
tiful. 

Bonnieness, cleverness. 
Bothy, hut, cottage. 
Brae, a hill- slope, ac- 
clivity. 

Braw, fine. 

Brawly, finely ; well. 
Braid, broad. 


Bricht, bright. 

Brither, brother. 

Brocht, brought. 

Brunt, burned. 

Buik, hook. 

Buirdly, stout; broad- 
made. 

Bund, bound. 

Burn (or, burnie), rivu- 
let. 

But and ben, back room 
and sitting-room. 
Byre, cow-stable ; sheep- 
pen. 

Cairn, a mound of 

stones. 

Can u a, can not. 

Canny, gentle; well-dis- 
posed. 

Cauld, cold. 

Ceevil, civil. 

Certy, for certain, sure ; 
indeed. 

Chairge, charge. 

Chap, tap ; thrum. 
Cheep, chirp; a word. 
Chiel (or, chield,) young 
man. 

Claes, clothes. 

Claith, cloth. 

Clash, talk; converse; 

gossip. 

Clud, cloud. 

Coont, count. 

Coorse, course. 

Crack, talk ; gossip. 
Cratur, creature. 

Craw, crow. 

Creepie, stool ; hassock. 
Crood, crowd. 

Croon, crown. 

Croose (or, crouse,) pert ; 
bold. 

Cutty, short; small in 
stature. 

Dae, do. 

Daffing, sporting. 

Daft, foolish ; mad. 
Dauchter, daughter. 


Daur, dare. 

Daurna, dare not. 

Daw tie, darling; one 
doated on. 

Deave, deafen. 

Dee, die. 

Deed (or, deid), dead. 
Denty, dainty. 

Didna, did not. 

Dinna, do not. 

Disna, does not. 

Div, do. 

Dochter, daughter. 
Donnert, stupid. 

Doo, dove. 

Dool, grief, trouble. 
Doon, down. 

Doot, doubt. 

Douce, grave ; serious. 
Dour, grim. 

Dowie, sad. 

Dreich, slow; tedious. 

D r o o k i t, drenched ; 

drowned. 

Droon, drown. 

Drucken, drunk. 
Dumbfoon dered, amazed. 
Dune, done. 

Dwine, dwindle. 

Ee (or, e’e), eye. 

Een (or, e’en), eyes 
Eerie, timorous ; afraid. 
Efter, after. 

Efternune, afternoon. 
Embro, Edinboro’ ; 
Edinburgh. 

Eneuch (or, eneugh), 
enough. 

Ettle, intend ; aim at ; 
attempt. 

Even doon, downright. 

Farther, father. 

Farl, cake. 

Fash, trouble ; annoy. 
Fashious, helpless. 

Faur, far. 

Faut, fault. 

Fecht, fight. 


t 


n 


GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS. 


Feckless, worthless ; 
feeble. 

Fecklessness, careless- 
ness. 

Fell, keen or keenly. 
Fend, provide. 

Ferlie, wonder (con- 
temptuously); a fancy. 
Fesh, fetch. 

Fit, foot. 

Flichter, flutter. 

Flooer, flower. 

Flure, floor. 

Flyte, scold. 

Foondry, foundry. 
Forebear (or, forbear), 
ancestress ; ancestor. 
Forbye, besides. 
Foment, opposite. 
Forrit, forward. 

Foucht, fought. 

Frae, from. 

Freend, friend. 

Frem, strange. 

Fricht, fright. 

Fule, fool. 

Fushionless, incompe- 
tent. 

Gae, go. 

Gaed, went. 

Gaffer, direct. 

Gait, way. 

Gane, gone. 

Gang, go. 

Gar, make. 

Gawn, going. 

Gear, goods ; property. 
Genty, elegantly formed; 

neat; high-bred. 

Gey, very ; pretty. 
Geyan, very. 

Gie, give. 

Gien, given. 

Gif (or, gin), if. 

Girn, grin ; snarl at. 

G 1 a i k e t, thoughtless ; 
foolish. 

Glisk, glimpse. 
Gloaming, twilight. 
Gomeril, fool ; dolt ; 

blockhead. 

Goon, gown. 

Gowan, wild daisy. 
Grabbit, grabbed. 

Grat, cried. 

Grawn, grand. 

Greet, cry. 

Grue, shudder; shiver. 
Grund, ground. 

Gude (or, guid), good. 
Gump, wade. 


Hae, have. 

Haen, bad. 

Haena, have not. 

Hail (or, hale), whole. 
Hairst, harvest. 

Hame, home. 

H a n 1 1 e, a handful ; 

much; many. 

Hasna, has not. 

Haud, hold. 

Havena, have not. 

Heid, head. 

Helpit, helped. 

Hing, hang. 

Hinna, have not. 

Hizzie, young woman ; 

tom-boy. 

Hoo, how. 

Hoolet, owl ; owlet. 
Hooly, slowly. 

Hooly! take leisure; 
stop ! 

Hoose, house. 

Hopit, hoped. 

Houp, hope. 
Howdy-hole, closet. 
Howin, hoeing. 

Hubble, confusion. 

IivK or ilka, each ; every. 
Intae (and, iutil), into. 
Ither, other. 

Jimpy, little ; neat ; 

slender. 

Jist, just. 

Kebbuck, a cheese-cake. 
Keek, peep; look 
sharply. 

Keepit, kept. 

Ken, know. 

Kenna, know not. 

Ken n in’, knowing. 

Kent (or, kenned), 
known, knew. 

Kep, cape. 

Kintry, country. 

Kirn, harvest home; 

harvest feast. 

Kittle, ticklish ; nice ; 

intricate. 

Kye, cows. 

Laird, lord ; a land-pro- 
prietor. 

Lairn, learn. 

Lammie, little lamb. 
Lane (his, her, its, etc.), 
alone. 

Lang, long. 

Lauch, laugh. 


Lave, remainder ; rest. 
Leddy, lady. 

Leal, loyal ; faithful. 
Lee, lie. 

Len’, loan. 

Leeve, live. 

Licht, light. 

Lichtlie, sneer at ; treat 
with contempt. 
Lichtit, lighted. 

Likit, liked. 

Limmer, a wanton. 
Lippen, trust. 

Lookit, looked. 

Lug, ear. 

Lum, chimney. 

Ma ; my. 

Mair, more. 

Maist, most. 

Maister, master. 

Maitter, matter. 

Mane, fuss ; ado. 

Maun, must. 

Maunna, must not. 
Micht, might. 
Midden-dyke, garden 
wall ; ditch. 

Mirk, dark. 

Mi i her, mother. 

Mony, many. 

Moosie, mouse. 

Mou’, mouth. 

Muckle, much. 

Muirland, moor. 
Mune-licht, moon-light. 

Na (or, nae), no, not. 
Nae, none. 

Naebody, nobody. 
Naething, nothing. 
Neebor, neighbor. 
Needna, need not. 

Neist, next. 

Nicht, night. 

Noo, now : at the noo, 
at present ; at once. 

Ocht, aught. 

Ongauns, going* on ; 

doings. 

Ony, any. 

Oo, yes. 

’Ooman, woman. 

Oor, our. 

Oot (or, ooten), out ; 
out of. 

Oucht, ought. 

Ower, over. 

Oxter, arm-pit. 

Paidi/t, paddled. 


GLOSSARY OF SCOTCH WORDS. 


HI 


Pat, pot. 

Patrick (or, paitrick), 
partridge. 

Peety, pity. 

Pit, put. 

Pleeskure, pleasure. 
Pooer, power. 

Poo’rless, powerless. 
Prig, cheapen ; dispute. 
Prood, proud. 

Puir, poor. 

Putten, put. 

Quate, quiet. 

Quean, servant - maid ; 
young woman. 

Rael, real. 

Reek, smoke. 

Reem, run over. 

Richt, right. 

Rin, run. 

Roond, round. 

Roup, sale. 

Rowan, the mountain 
ash. 

Rowth, plenty. 

Sae, so. 

Sair, sore ; very, 

Saut, salt. 

Scone, cake. 

Scoor, scour. 

Shoon, shoes. 

Sic (or, siccan), such. 
Sicht, sight. 

Siller, silver. 

Simmer, summer. 

Sin, since ; after. 

Sinsyne, afterward. 
Skelly, squint. 

Skep, hive for bees. 
Slippit, slipped. 
Smeddum, spirit ; met- 
tle. 

Snell, biting; severe; 
sharp. 

Socht, sought. 

Sodger, soldier. 


Spate, flood. 

Speer (or, spier), ask 
for; inquire. 

Speer it, spirit. 

Stanes, stoues. 

Steer, stare. 

Stoop, a prop; a post 
fixed in the earth. 
Stoory, dusty; stormy. 
Stoppit, stopped. 

Stour, dust. 

Stracht (or, strecht), 
straight. 

Stravage, wander or 
stray. 

Stude (or, studer), stood. 
Sune, soon. 

Sutten, set. 

Syne, after ; ago. 

Tae, to. 

Tapsalteerie, topsy- 
turvy. 

Tatties, potatoes. 

Telt, told. 

Tempit, tempted. 

Thack, thatch. 

Thae, those. 

Thegither, together. 
Thocht, thought. 

Thole, bear ; eudure. 
Thon, those. 

Thowless, slack ; lazy ; 
heedless. 

Tlirapple, throat ; wind- 
pipe. 

Thraw (or, throw), twist; 

quarrel ; be cross. 
Thrawn, cross; perverse; 

quarrelsome. 
Thrawnness, perversity. 
Thraid, thread. 

Till, to. 

Toon, town. 

Twa, two. 

Twal’, twelve. 

Unkent, unknown. 
Unco, very, strauge. 


Unneeborly; unneigh- 
borly. 

TJphaud, uphold. 

Vekra, very. 

Wad (or, wud), would. 
Waddin’, wedding. 

Wae, sorrowful ; sad. 
Waggit, wagged. 

Wan tit, want ed. 

Wark, work. 

Warld, world. 

Warst, worst. 

Warstle, struggle. 

Waur, worse. 

Weans, babes; children. 
Wechty, weighty. 

Wee, little. 

Weel, well. 

Whae, who. 

Whan, when. 

Whatten, what ; which 
one. 

Wliaur, where. 

Wheen, a number; a 
good deal. 

Wheesht, be calm, hush. 
Whiles (or, whyles), 
sometimes. 

Whing, cry; complain; 
fret. 

Winna; will not.. 
Withhaud, withhold. 
Workit, worked. 

Wrang, wrong. 

Wudna, would not. 

W nil, will. 

Wullint, willing. 
Wunner, wonder. 

Wusli, wish. 

Yammer (or, yaumer), 
fret ; scold. 

Yestreen, yester even- 
ing. 

Yett, gate. 

Yirls, earls. 

Yont, beyond. 


































N - 


\ 






































J 


















I 





















t 














V 














































































































































































































■ : . * 






























































































































































































































































. 














































' 


































































, 






. V 




















% 

































































































* 
















. 



























































■ 



















































LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



□DD25121fl^3 

0 




